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Ireland (Historical Counties) => Ireland => Dublin => Topic started by: Bridget x on Monday 26 February 07 18:57 GMT (UK)
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While life in the Dublin tenements was pretty grim, it did have it's lighter side as illustrated by the following true story. I hope it is O.K. to digress for a moment to raise a smile! Bridget x
Recollections, My Da The John Wayne of Ireland (Dublin 1949 )
Looking at the beautiful O Connell St, Dublin’s main thoroughfare, with its exquisite hat, dress, book and old worldly sweet shops it would be hard to imagine the decrepit, crumbling houses which lay a few hundred feet behind its fancy façade. As if to add insult to injury the busy abattoir was placed squarely among us, much, I might add to the joy of the local boys!! Known to us as “The slaughter House” they (the boys) would call there and (depending on the mood of the foreman) come away with the bladder of some dead animal. This would be stuffed with all sorts of material from newspapers to goodness knows what resulting in a football which gave them many hours of pleasure for as long as it lasted. Why this abattoir was situated here remains a mystery. Perhaps the City Fathers thought they might offend the sensibilities of our more affluent brothers and sisters living in the grand houses of the outer City! Even for us city children it was not uncommon to see a herd of cows being driven towards the slaughter house. The drover or farmer would have walked many miles from some outlying farm to get them there. At the top of our street but on the opposite side of the road stood a very large factory,(Williams&Woods) so big it occupied the whole block. Employing many hundreds of people it produced jams, boiled sweets, sauces and canned beans, it traded under the name of “Chef” At 12.30 every day the sound of its huge hooter could be heard for miles around as it heralded lunch break. Unfortunately, on one particular day, just as the farmer was herding his large herd past the factory, the hooter went off! This caused a stampede that would have done justice to a John Wayne movie! The terrified cattle ran in all directions seeking ways of escape. They ran up the narrow entrance to the factory blocking it as the farmer frantically tried to get them under control. A huge bullock finding its way blocked turned back, the whites of its eyes showing this poor animal’s terror. Spying the open space of our street, it made for there causing people to run in all directions to avoid getting crushed! Meanwhile, back at the ranch SORRY! our house we had just sat down to a hurried lunch when the most horrendous noise brought us to our feet! My poor mother, white faced and blessing herself, truly thought the old house was falling down around her! Unknown to us the huge bullock had entered our hall, (we never locked hall or room doors, none of us had anything worth stealing) It could not have picked a worse place to seek shelter; ours had the narrowest hall in the whole street!
The foundations of our old tenement house shook, (they were already due for demolition.)causing us to jump up ready to make our great escape. Da, (our hero) rushed ahead on reconnaissance mission, opened the door and came face to face with the bull now firmly lodged in our narrow. hall. Swiftly closing the door, he almost took it off its hinges! God darn it pardners, looks like we are trapped here!
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By now, a very large crowd had gathered outside our hall door, curious onlookers mainly from the factory. The battle had began! it's objective, to get the bull out of the hall. It did not help matters that the wag from next door had rushed home and returned with his kids cowboy hat, throwing it through our now open window and telling dad to “Try that for size” The wall separating us from this crazed animal was only a light partition. Ma, now frantically holding up her precious dresser (on our side of the wall) as every movement of the new friendly? addition to our home was sending contents crashing to floor. The younger children were now hysterical and clinging to mums apron while another sister showed her true colours (deserter) by trying to escape (unsuccessfully)through front window Mum was furious as my older sister and my self were now on the floor doubled up laughing, Mum did not dare let go of her precious dresser and contents to wallop us. My “Shall we send for the cavalry and” Think of the Alamo” fell as flat as a wet balloon! Crowds had now gathered outside the house, shouting helpful (?) suggestions like “Shoot the b----rd and we’ll all have steak tonight! Oh God, NO Da decides to take charge, issuing orders to the drover on the other side of the wall! To hear him one would think he had spent years in Texas on cattle drives! The nearest he had been to a cow was on film at the local flea pit! He informs the now tearful farmer he (da) will leave the house by the back window, approach the bullock from the back yard whence he will pull the animal while the farmer pushes! Oh Yeah!!!!!! The idea was to drive it out into the back yard, turn it and drive it back on to the street, had Da forgotten the poor beast would have to navigate the back stairs? Da left the house by the back ground floor window and went around to the back hall. On seeing movement in front of him the already terrified animal charged forward, thus freeing itself from the narrow hall but, leaving the farmer flat on his face. Da, (no fool) on seeing this several hundredweight of beef on the hoof coming towards him took to his heels heading for our large back yard!! He was now in our view as we had all rushed to the back window. I had never seen him move so swiftly, in one leap he reached the safety of the top of the wall causing my brother to remark “Remind me to enter him for the high jump” Our neighbours had now rushed from the front to the back windows of the houses thus having a birds eye view over our back yard. Mam, from the safety of the back window shouted “ Mick,(Da) will you for Gods sake get down off that wall and give the poor animal a drink of water, do you think it would like some bread?) You will gather from this, mam was a city girl through and through. I will not write of Dad’s reply!! Entering into the spirit of the event, the wag from next door started singing “ Home, home on the range” and all our neighbours joined in much to Dad’s chagrin Still sitting astride the wall he told them “ Why don’t some of you smart a—es come on in and show us what you can do”. Can’t remember who but from our window it was suggested “Da, grab one of mum’s sheets from the line and do what them fellows in Spain do! Eventually, the drover now in the yard managed to turn the bullock get it up the back stairs where it then rushed madly into the street. The crowds outside not expecting this had to drop bicycles and run in all directions. One young man nearest the door leapt over the railings, falling into the deep basement area and breaking an ankle. I returned to work explaining I was several hours late because I could not get out of the hall due to a bullock blocking it. “Pull the other one” said the foreman, “Do you expect me to believe that cock and bull story? Your suspended for two days” LOL. Bridget
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hi bridget,great story and well put.
think being a dub' helps .remember sheep and
cattle being brought through the streets of the city too,
I was terrified of the beasts and on shopping trips to thomas st
and the surrounding area I kept well away from them. giggles.
anne
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Thanks Anne, Just browsing through this board ( I am new to it) and found the section "The lighter side" so have posted this story on there as I think it should have been there in the first place. Bridget x
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The two small children were still arguing as they entered the street. Michael, the older, but smaller of the two turned this way and that trying to avoid the hands of his younger, but taller brother Patrick as he endeavoured to reach the hidden object under Michel’s coat. On reaching home, Dad’s voice shouting out, “What is going on here?” brought the squabble to a swift close. And so the story unfolded as each boy gave their version of what had happened. Cutting through a lane on the way home their attention was drawn to a sack tied with a rope. From within came tiny whimpering sounds which caused the boys to draw closer. Patrick undid the rope and taking the two end corners, gingerly tipped the contents on the ground. Lying there, shivering and frightened was the smallest puppy they had ever seen. Michael gently lifted it and placed it under his coat where it would hopefully get some body heat. Now the question arose, whose dog was it? Both boys wanting to claim it as their own! Dad, (judge) listened as each of my brothers gave their reasons as to why they should be the owner. Patrick putting forward the valid argument it would still be there in the lane had he not opened the sack. Michael’s answer to that was he was the first to pick it up and probably saved its life by keeping it warm”. My dad would not let us have a dog saying we had enough mouths to feed! Eyeing this tiny scrap of a puppy he humoured the boys knowing it would not survive until morning. He suggested he would toss a coin and whichever boy called correctly would own the dog. Patrick agreed to this but Michael was adamant he would have no part of it, the thought of not owing the dog sat poorly on his shoulders! Michael was born with a heart defect. He was not a strong robust boy as were others of the same age. While he and Patrick fought continually, they were inseparable. Patrick would fight any boy who took advantage of Michael’s slight frame. Graciously, Patrick agreed to Michael having the dog. Had the tossing of a coin took place and had Patrick won, in reality, he would have walked away the loser. Fate, and the new addition to our family decided who was to be master from day one! Sitting in front of the glowing embers to keep it warm, Michael and dad sat up all night feeding the puppy warm milk and “pops” The puppy was given the name Rex. He would forever follow Michael. Dad’s prediction that the puppy would not last the night couldn’t have been more wrong! Rex was to be part of our family for the next eighteen years, sadly outliving his young master. Part 2 to follow
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Rex was already a part of the household when I and younger siblings were born. He became our pet; he would let us pull him around and ride on his back with never a snarl or bark. As youngsters, my sisters and I would dress him up, wrapping him in an old shawl and bonnet. We struggled to lift and place him in our dolls pram before proceeding to wheel him up and down our street. He passively lay there, allowing us to do so! Michael would get so angry when he found us using his dog as a dolly, claiming we were turning Rex into a “Sissy” dog! A great house dog, he recognized all the family footsteps as we entered the hall and would wag his tail. If a stranger entered the open hall door he would bark like mad. A mongrel, black and tan in colour, he followed Michael everyplace, even to school waiting patiently outside for the lunch time break. In winter he was allowed to sleep indoors curling up on the rug in front of the fire every night. In summer, he slept in a snug box in a corner of the hall. Our world fell apart when sixteen year old Michael died suddenly. Amidst all the heartbreak, funeral arrangements had to be organised and Rex was temporarily forgotten for the moment. We were soon to be made aware of him in no uncertain way!! As was the custom all those years ago, my brother was laid out in his bedroom. The first morning after Michael’s death, Rex went crazy, tearing up and down the stairs, out to the back yard and on out into the street looking for his master. Then, as if sensing Michael’s presence, he lay outside the bedroom door uncharacteristically howling like a wolf. It was pitiful to hear. Worse was to come. In those days there was no such thing as funeral parlours, mourning coaches and such like. A glass hearse, drawn by four black horses would carry the coffin, two men dressed in black and sitting high up controlling the horses with reins. The horse’s heads would be adorned by large black plumes, white in the case of a woman. After the hearse, came cabs, pulled by a single horse the leading cabs carrying family (four in each cab) The following line of cabs carried neighbours and friends. The line of cabs ran the full length of our street, an indication of how much loved our Michael was. Patrick, who had been Michaels champion over the years, shared a cab with both their boyhood friends. Just as the funeral procession was about to pull away from the kerb Rex, (who was supposed to be at a neighbours) shot out on to the street. Running to and fro beneath the hooves of the leading horses, almost causing them to rear up. Who ever said dogs were dumb animals? Did this once little scrap know his master was leaving him for good? I think he did. All efforts to restrain and get hold of him was met with snarls, until finally, Patrick left the cab and lifting him gently placed him indoors and closed the door firmly. In the weeks following our loss poor little Rex just lay about, indifferent to who entered our hall. He went off his food and just lumbered about with big brown sad eyes. In time, I think he knew his master would not be returning to fuss and love him. Rex now belonged to all of us and in time returned to his old self. We would have him for many more years, eighteen in all. Eventually, he became deaf, blind and could hardly walk. My father wanted to have him put down but my mother would not hear tell of it nor I might add would we, the children. Did she, I wonder think as long as Rex was there so to was a part of her darling boy? He died peacefully in his sleep and I think a little part of all of us died with him. I shed a little tear as I write this but like to think Michael and Rex were reunited at last. Bridget x
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Hi Bridget,
Thank you for sharing such a heart touching part of
your life with us. It is so beautifully written what a lovely tribute
too your family.
As I read this I too shed a tear.
Raels
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Hi Raels, Thanks for the kind comment. I jot these little stories down in the hope my (presently uninterested) children will one day develop an interest in their family background. So nice to get feedback on my doodling! Thanks, Bridget x
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A man called Bang-Bang
More years ago than I care to remember we had several tramps in our fair city. We had “Johnny Forty Coats” so called because he wore several overcoats winter or summer. Another was “The Guard” because of his military bearing. Now he really was a handsome man beneath all the hair and grime. Standing 6ft 5ins. it was said he came home from the war a broken man and despite having a wealthy family elected to live on the streets. Everyone’s favorite was a man named Silver or Bang- Bang. A fanatic for cowboy movies, the name Silver most likely came from “Hi ho Silver” (Lone Ranger) Bang- Bang always carried a large key of the old fashioned type, using it as a gun. If one was unlucky enough to get close to him he would dig you in the ribs with this key shouting “Bang, bang, Gotcha, your dead” Most of us would clutch the part where the “bullet” had entered and pretend to die on the spot!!! He would use the city buses as his “stage coach” hanging on to the rail as he took aim and shot the “baddies” as he travelled all over Town. He was a part of our city, known and loved by all, and everyone just played along and humored him, (were we crazy or what?) Folk still talk of the day a busload of American tourists arrived in the City center. They must have thought they had been dropped off in Bedlam! Imagine the sight that greeted them. Bang-bang, ragged coat flying in the wind, unkempt silver hair all over the place shooting up the whole of town while children (and adults) shot back from doorways and any other place they could find to take cover! Imagine the surprise of the locals when the Americans joined in, shooting from behind pillar boxes and buses with cries of “Give up bub, your outnumbered” I often wondered did they think it was some sort of quaint local custom and they would fall in with it? You could not visit our city without meeting Bang-bang if he was out and about, part of the guided tour! Famous and immortalised in song Her poets they were many Her writers they were plenty There was Swift with all his little folk And Joyce and Molly Bloom Her characters an unsung gang There's forty Coats' and old 'Bang, Bang' And 'Zozimus' who always sang Of dear old Dublin town I had long left home when my sister wrote to tell me of Bang-bang’s death. How sad I was. Our city and its people had grown up with this character and his weird and wonderful ways. He was as familiar to us as our local monuments, so much so that his death was front page news. On the morning of his funeral, people lined the city streets in their thousands to pay their last respects to him. It is allaged the mourning coach was escorted by six police outriders and followed by city dignitaries and the people who had known and loved him. I believe the city fathers paid for his headstone. I promise myself I will go and visit his grave, not only to pay my respects but, hopefully to find out the real name of the man they called, Bang-bang. Bridget.x
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Thank you so much Bridget for that lovely story! Those "characters" were so much part of the fabric of smaller towns and villages, perhaps more so than in Dublin. So to make an impact like Bang Bang did in Dublin is even more testimony to his enduring and endearing charm.
Don't you just love those old nicknames and the stories behind them?
And thanks for your earlier John Wayne story. I loved it!
Pat
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hi bridget,
"bang bangs" real name is thomas dudley.
I know there is a story online somewhere which
gives more details.there is one I found today but
it does'nt add much to the story,I seem to remember he
was going blind in later years and was cared for .
by the way,have enjoyed your stories too and was given
a book on dublin cinemas by my son that I know you'd love,
lots of big photos too,bet you remember the'maro'
once shot by 'bang bang'
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Hi Pat, Thanks for your kind comment. I often think if some clever person researched and wrote a book on our Dublin characters they would make a fortune! I hang my head in shame as I recall how, as children on the way to school we would make fun of " Johnny 40 coats" and he would attempt to run after us. Because of the bulk of his clothing plus, all the rubbish he carried, thankfully he never caught us!! Do you remember a character called Paddy Riley? So called I believe because he stood busking in Henry St and always sang that song. I have written a story (again true) about Paddy which I will try and put on tonight. I feel a bit embarrassed saying "written a story" I really just doodle !!! The "John Wayne " story was a true account which my sisters and I still laugh about.
Anne, Thomas Dudley, well thank you so much for that ,clever girl! For years I wondered about the true name of "Bang=Bang, a character that was part of my childhood. I will go and search out his story on line. I don't exaggerate when I say we could stand at our old hall door and reach out and almost touch the Maro. I wish I had a penny for every visit I made there. The head usher was a man named Paddy Hoy (sp) who lived in our St. It was his mother who sold the fruit in front of the cinema. Happy days! Bridget x P.S. I'm still laughing at "Once shot by Bang Bang"
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To this day, I still miss my adored mum. This little 5ft bundle of energy who had such a hard life and yet, never failed to see some good in people no matter how bad they were. What little we had she shared amongst those of our neighbours who had even less. Large pots of soup bubbled away on our cooker most days and as the angelus chimed out from our local church three of us children were dispatched with the old fashioned white enamel jugs with hot soup to various people. This always ensued into an argument as to who was going to deliver to one particular lady. She would be waiting by her hall door watching for us coming and without fail up would go the cry, “Your late young H-------y, the angelus has stopped ringing” or “Tell your mother she put too much salt/herbs in yesterdays soup!! At this time mum did not go to work as there were seven of us young children and mum’s parents also lived with us. It was said then that nana had “Gone childish” but I suspect that today it would be called senile dementia, a term not used way back then. Sometimes nana would wonder off and poor mum would search the streets looking for her with two small children by her side. In reality it was like having an extra child to look after as nana had to be washed, dressed and hair braided amongst other things. Still mourning the loss of her 16year old son Michael, her favourite child, she was heartbroken when nana died, followed two years later by her father. Mum went to 6oclock Mass every morning at Domnic St church and would be back home by 7oclock. One bitterly cold winter’s day as she made her way back home she came across a well known Dublin tramp huddled in a shop doorway and almost frozen to death. Although he was known by all as Paddy Riley, I am not sure if this was really his name, he sang this song while begging for coppers until he got enough to buy the cider he was addicted to, hence the name. A big man, my little mother struggled to lift and help him back to the shelter of the hall of our tenement house. Putting fingers to pursed lips, and pointing to the upper room where dad slept, she indicated to him he must keep very quiet as dad, unlike mum, lacked compassion and would have turned him out! He sat on the stairs while mum made him a large plate of toast and a big mug of tea. Talk about fast food!! In at seven and out by half past before dad came down those stairs!! How mum giggled that first morning when dad came down the stairs and complained about the terrible smell in the hall! I must mention the words “personal hygiene” did not come into Paddy’s vocabulary. And thus started mum’s relationship with “The other man in her life” as we girls laughingly referred to Paddy. Mum would arrive home from church and Paddy would be waiting every morning for his tea and toast while mum sweated, not from the heat of the cooker but from fear of dad finding him and throwing him out into the street! I can’t remember how long she got away with her good deeds but vividly remember the morning Paddy blotted his copy book and the shutters of the fast food shop (LOL) were pulled down. On that memorable morning, mum rushed home to feed Paddy only to find he had also invited “guests” to breakfast! One, a well known “lady of the night” who’s enthusiasm towards the American sailors who visited our ports did more to further Irish American relations than had the efforts of our own President or Government!! The other “guest” filthy in appearance, (she made Paddy look clean) could have come straight from the production of Macbeth, She would have required no make up! Alas poor mum! Not only beaten but outnumbered. Part 2 below.
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Desperately (in whispers) trying to get them to be quiet while she tried to explain she was not in a position to feed these extra” guests”. Paddy, no doubt trying to impress his lady friends and wanting to appear manly while he towered over my little mum proceeded to berate his benefactress with cries of “Who do yya think you’re talking to? You can’t talk to my financee (fiancée) and her mother like that; all we want is tea and toast” The “ladies” then joined in and of course the inevitable happened. Dad came rushing down the stairs to find out what all the commotion was about and all hell broke loose! When Paddy (swearing like mad) told dad to mind his own business, this had nothing to do with him, well, it was like a red rag to a bull! Trying to avoid trouble my now desperate mum offered to feed them just this once but dad was not having it. He took Paddy by his collar and coat and slung him out into the street followed by his “fan club” It did not end there! The bold Paddy, well lubricated by his favourite cider returned almost every night. He would stand outside our house and looking up towards the bedroom would challenge my dad to “Come out and fight like a man, you have a saint of a wife but you are nothing but a bowsie “ (blackguard) I should mention, ours was a very tough street housing a lot of “hard” men. Disturbing their sleep would not have gone down to kindly so. Paddy soon got the message after many windows were raised with threats of what would happen if he did not clear off!! Sadly, some years later Paddy’s body was found in the burnt out cellar of a derelict house. Apparently he had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. On hearing the news, mum looked at dad and sadly remarked, “We should say a little prayer for poor Paddy,” Dad made no reply, and my wonderful compassionate mum just shook her head from side to side. Bridget x
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I just want to say thank you, you really have a talent for storytelling, your tales really remind of the type of stories my nanny would tell me, " goin down memory lane" as I used to request. She had a similar upbringing to yours in Back Lane/Christchurch area, and it is like listening to her speak. Thank you again, and keep them coming.
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Thank's Marie, you are most kind. I love scribbling down all these old memories of my childhood in Dublin. I will try and dig out some more. Bridget x
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Recollections My Lovely Nana
As in the case of any small child I was unaware of the difference between rich and poor, good quality clothes or cheap practical apparel, the difference in speech and so many other things unconnected to the magic world of childhood. My world way back then was one of spinning tops, balls, dolls and playing with my friends in our street of tenement houses. The questions and “wondering” would come when I grew older. Mum would only have to say, “Go and ask your nana” and I would take the stairs two at a time to reach the landing above our ground floor rooms where my maternal grandparents lived. Stepping over the threshold of my grandparent’s rooms was like stepping into another world. Within a heartbeat I was transported back to a time of gentility, austere dressing and surroundings that I had only seen pictures of in books. It was hard to believe that this was the heart of the Dublin slums I grew up in. Years later I would devour books to learn more of the history of this street. It came as no surprise to learn; because of its location in central Dublin, that it had once housed lords and ladies, barristers and indeed members of parliament. These wealthy owners had long since gone and yet, a small part of their expensive indulgence could still be seen here and there, amongst the now crumbling ruins. With age and hindsight I look back and laugh at a small part of the legacy left behind by our houses past owners! The four story houses were now home to as many as ten families and each room was referred to as the front parlour, back parlour, drawing room, back drawing room and so forth! Our family lived in the front and back parlour while my grandparents occupied the front and back drawing rooms! I could not imagine anything more fitting for nana. It felt as though one of those grand ladies of long ago had just stepped out and my grandparents had moved in, sadly, not the case. The room was huge and high still retaining the beautiful moldings and cornices where the walls met the ceiling, in parts crumbling yet, not detracting from its beauty. As one entered the room the light from two long windows (opposite the door) reaching from ceiling to floor flooded the room with light. Long crisp cotton nets, again reaching from ceiling to floor were held in place by pairs of brass “tie backs” and to complete the look, in front of each window were two large brass flower pots holding my nana’s beloved geraniums. The pots stood on tall narrow tables with spindly legs, just wide enough to carry the pots. The long sash windows no longer worked, but they could be raised and some strong object placed beneath to hold them open. One day my nana showed me how they were supposed to work. Opening two long wooden doors just inside both windows she pointed out the weights (now rusted) which worked the windows and minus the ropes required to work them. I remember my excitement on being shown this “secret place” and made up my mind there and then never to disclose this magic hiding place to my siblings! I loved everything about my nana’s rooms but my favourite object was the fireplace. Even now, looking back, I shake my head and wonder at the cost! Only a very wealthy person could have afforded such opulence. In any other room in our street it would have looked so out of place, but not here! A cast iron fireplace taking up the space of almost one wall, it now shone and reflected years of loving care with the black leading brushes. What craftsmanship had gone into its making! Scrolls, grapes, and birds covered every inch of its surface, the grate itself set well back with several bars across its front. A large brass fender with a tall matching companion set completed the picture. Nana had a type of iron square plate with two rungs which hooked over the bars. I only learned many years later it was to “crisp up” a cooked joint of meat, however I guess nana cheated and made the most delicious toast on it! Above the fireplace was a large over mantle the full width of the fireplace. In it’s center, a large mirror edged with mahogany wood with small shelves leading off to both sides. The obligatory wooden clock took pride of place in the center of the mantle piece with a large white spotted dog on each side. Nana always had a dark green velvet mantle cloth, ruched at intervals with dozens of small pom-poms running along its edges. Imagine my joy, one day on discovering that if I pulled a tiny thread I could unravel these little balls one after the other!! I was sent down below to our rooms in disgrace! Jutting from the wall on each side of the fireplace two (once brass) tubular lengths held the old gas mantles in place. How I loved curling up in front of the glowing fire listening to the hissing sound they made. When they “dimmed” nana would put another penny in the meter and once again the room would be enveloped in a warm glow.
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The center of the room was dominated by a huge round, polished table, supported by a large column with several claw like legs. A very tall lamp, its white glass globe showing a thick white wick, the middle a pink bulbous shape leading down into a brass stand stood center table. My next best favourite was the biggest photo album I have ever seen. The cover, a thick embossed material, had a very large clasp holding it closed. As a child, it took my two small hands to turn a page. Here again one would suspect the past grand ladies of this once fine house had gone and left it behind! Oh! Those wonderful old sepia pictures, such gowns, such splendor, and always the same question, “Nana, is this you? Is this your mummy?” and always the same answer, “That’s Auntie Katie” I never did learn who Aunt Katie was, not until I started researching my family when I was almost as old as my beloved nana! A huge sideboard stood in place on the wall opposite the fire place. It was so long I wondered how they had managed to get it up the lovely wooden spiral staircase of our old tenement house! As a child I could not imagine it coming apart in sections! The polished top, with lace runner held three glass shades or domes, one large one at each end with a smaller one in the middle. The taller ones housed religious statues while the center one held an array of stuffed birds. A customer of my granddad, (the shoemaker) was really eager to buy this piece of furniture but nana would never sell it. Mum would say it was made from mahogany, looking back now I think it was made from the redwood tree. Every year on Easter Sunday all twelve grandchildren would gather and nana would produce an array of Easter eggs, boxed ones for the boys and little baskets for the girls. Our eyes almost popped out of our heads when she showed us the “secret drawer” inside its cupboard! My vivid imagination knew no bounds, as the years passed I convinced myself my nana was really a lady who, despite family objections had married my poor granddad, a simple shoe/boot maker. How else could one explain her beautiful manner of speech, her exquisite taste in clothes, her impeccable manners? Even today, I can close my eyes and see this tiny doll like woman with finely chiselled features, even in old age, beautiful. I can’t recall how old I was but do vividly remember her dressed in a hip length black velvet cloak covered in a pattern made up of hundreds of tiny jet beads, on her head a black bonnet and lace up boots on her tiny feet. She only ever wore black, that is apart from the black crossover pinafore decorated with tiny lavender flowers. Some years later the beads of the cloak began to unravel and fall off. I was given the cloak and together with my two little friends sat for hours on the back steps of our tenement house where we unpicked all the tiny beads and spent endless happy hours threading them for necklaces and bracelets. Some time ago I managed a trip to Dublin and quite by chance managed to get the phone number of one of my two little friends. We had not spoken for fifty five years! How we reminisced about the old street and our childhood. Out of the blue she said to me, “Oh, how I remember your nana, she was so beautiful and wore such lovely clothes,
Do you remember her lovely beaded cloak, the ones she gave you to play with? What fun and happy hours we had with it” I got to admit, I was oh, so proud . Bridget x
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My sister is visiting from Dublin and, as usual we sat reminiscing and the conversation turned to the above story regarding mum feeding Paddy Riley. She told me the following which, until today I was unaware of. LOL Paddy had arrived for his usual tea and morning toast but mum was not back from Mass. She decided to do the honours. Mum arrived just as she was handing Paddy his breakfast and in her words, " I got a good boxing around the ears" because I had not put his bread on a side plate and both plate and tea on a tray!!!!!1. We are still laughing as she is very indignant about this episode. LOL Bridget x
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This old mind of mine reminds me of a volcano, sometimes latent, yet other time erupting like Mount Etna! Like lava, the memories come pouring out hitting objects along life’s way thus evoking particular memories of events, places and times in no particular order! Strange, how something as insignificant as a song, playing in the car as you drive along or even as background music in the supermarket, can, in one moment cause a tiny rip in the fabric of time allowing a glimpse into a past memory long since forgotten. It so happened I was selecting some fruit at our local supermarket when over the Tanoy came the strains of the song “Begin the Beguine”. I, and indeed all our family members associate this song with my late mum’s brother Paddy. Although a quiet man who did not have a lot to say, when he did speak he was possessed of a most wonderful dry wit. While all around him were doubled over laughing, he would sit there, a face like granite and not a smile. He had the most amazing singing voice and was never happier than when at a party to sing all night without prompting. I recall one occasion when we had all returned to Ireland for a family funeral. Later, at a gathering in the local bar male family members each paid for the “rounds” When it was Paddy’s round he gave the waiter the order but on receiving the bill his face visibly paled as he squinted at the bill total, (drinks are a lot more expensive in Dublin although you get a much larger measure) Reaching into his inside pocket, he withdrew not his wallet but his O.A. pension book and throwing it on the table proclaimed to the astonished waiter “You robbing ba----ds, take this and cash in next weeks pension while you are at it, that should cover this bill!! Luckily, this type of wit was acceptable in the Dublin of my youth! One of my earliest memories of uncle Paddy again revolves around death. As stated in an earlier story, my mum was the one called upon to wash and lay out the bodies of people who had died in our street. In those far off days there were no fancy undertakers or funeral parlours and even had those services been available we, and our neighbors would have been too poor to take advantage of them. Mr. Sullivan, a wonderful kind old gentleman who lived in the basement of our house, died. Having lost his wife some years earlier he lived alone and had no family or relations. Mum had “adopted” him and as well as doing his washing and shopping made sure he had a hot meal each day. As Mr. Sullivan was of the protestant faith, (the only one in our street) mum went and fetched the vicar. He assured mum he would make all the funeral arrangements and mum offered to wash and lay the old man out. The vicar duly arrived next day with the most elaborate white shroud with the front embedded with small seed pearls and lace! Mum had never seen anything like it. We had only ever seen the plain brown shroud with the I.H.S. emblazoned on the breast. She set to and washed the old chap but when it came to putting on the shroud discovered the arms would have to be “threaded” through the front as the ties were at the back! A tiny lady, mum was having great difficulty trying to support the body while trying to tie the back ribbons. Gently laying him down she went to the door and shouted upstairs for uncle Paddy to come and help. “What do you want me for? I am not going down there” he answered. “Come down here you coward, poor old Mr. Sullivan can’t harm you, he’s dead “ After much persuasion, and with hesitant footsteps, uncle Paddy arrived in the basement. “Now this is what I want you to do Paddy, you lift and hold the body up while I get the shroud on and tie up the back” said mum. A very reluctant Paddy did as he was told pulling Mr. Sullivan up by the arms thus enabling mum to fit the fancy shroud. All that was left to do was tie the back ribbons
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At this point mum was behind and underneath the raised body when all hell broke loose!!!Suddenely, a great weight descended on my tiny eight stone mum trapping her beneath the body of 15 stone Mr. Sullivan! “Paddy, Paddy, in the name of God, what’s happened? Where are you? (No answer) “Paddy (In a very angry voice) Where are you?if you don’t get back here and help me out you will be getting fitted for a habit (Shroud)” but still no answer! Poor mum, trapped beneath a body in a dark cellar the only light coming from a dim gas mantle on the wall. To make matters worse, the only other adult in the house was Nana and she, poor old soul was deaf! Mum eventually managed to extract herself from beneath the body of Mr. Sullivan and went tearing up the stairs ready to give the brave Paddy what for! “Where is he,” she asked Nana. “I don’t know, he came charging up the stairs as though the devil himself was after him, he was white faced and looked very ill” replied a very indignint Nana who, I might add would not let the sun shine on her only darling son! It was said she used to warm his potty before she let him sit on it!! LOl
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My very angry mum went looking for Paddy and found him in the local pub shaking and downing whiskeys like there was no tomorrow and so traumatised he looked like a snail on Prozac! The only audible sound coming from his white lips was “His eyes opened, his eyes opened” Despite mum explaining that this sometimes occurs when a body is suddenly jerked up Paddy was having none of it. Until the day he died many is the free pint of Guinness he earned from his cronies relating the story of how he saw a dead man’s eyes open!!! God Bless you uncle Paddy, you were indeed one hell of a character! Bridget x
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Now, now, Bridget! You are too modest. Doodle, in deed! I look forward to your Paddy story. I grew up in Rostrevor and Warrenpoint up in County Down where we had our share (and more) of characters too.
Keep writing.
Pat
And Anne, I too got a kick out of your proud claim of having been shot by Bang Bang!
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;D
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Bridget:
I can hardly type this with all the laughing. Thanks and God rest Paddy and Mr. Sullivan.
Pat
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Thanks Bridget. I too had a good laugh.
Where would we be without the Mr Sullivans and Paddys of this world.
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Thank's Pat and Christopher. Good to raise a laugh. To be honest I am not sure if I might offend people by putting these stories on here. I get carried away and do not want to "hog" the board, after all it is for genealogy purpose's so not sure if I am in order. Bridget x
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Hog away Bridget, these stories are great ;D
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I Hope you continue to "hog" the boards... the stories are wonderful. They are the stories of my mothers youth...
I just wish I could put them down on paper as good as you do... well done I really admire your way with words, they bring the whole thing to life... I could just picture poor Paddy down at the pub shaking with fear....
Marvellous...
Best wishes
mo
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I Hope you continue to "hog" the boards... the stories are wonderful. They are the stories of my mothers youth...
I just wish I could put them down on paper as good as you do... well done I really admire your way with words, they bring the whole thing to life... I could just picture poor Paddy down at the pub shaking with fear....
Marvellous...
Best wishes
mo
Bridget, the board is for Family History too and what a brilliant piece of Family History.
It would have been worth buying Paddy a pint to have heard the story from himself 8)
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Childhood Recollections The Big Itch !
Some nights see me lying awake unable to sleep, restless and turning from side to side going over the days happenings and knowing there is something I have to do tomorrow, but what?? Dear God I pray could you just be a wee bit more lenient and leave my memory a little more intact? I can put up with the swollen feet and ankles, the need to visit the loo twice a night and all the other aches and pains that come with old age!! Like the outgoing tide my short term memories are swept away as quickly as the tide disposes the plastic bottles and other rubbish left behind on the beach. Last weeks happenings and events are as distant as the man in the moon! Already I have missed two hospital appointments, one through no fault of my own. How I envy those people with total recall, the ever alert minds remembering dates, birthdays, anniversaries and so forth. I chide myself! Surely what I do have is a much more precious gift, the ability to reach back over many years and be able to recall and relive memories of my parents, childhood and events, some happy, some sad as illustrated in my past musings “Dublin Recollections” A song, a word or some small insignificant event can open a Pandora’s box of memories that had lain dormant with the passing years and now erupt in this old mind like the touch of a switch illuminating a room.
I sat in the surgery awaiting my turn not even inclined to glance at the out of date copies of Country Life, D.I.Y. and Homes magazines. Were I to open one I was sure I would find instructions from Noah on how to build an ark! All eyes glanced up as the door opened and a young mother with two small children entered. They sat opposite me and I could not fail to notice the small boy continually scratched at the skin on his arms and fingers, they were flaked and red. Aged about four years, my heart went out to the small lad, was it impetigo, eczema or scabies I wondered? surely not the latter. Had not the advancement of medicine rid us of this horrible affliction? And thus my train of thought transported me back in time. Alas, this memory of mine lets me down once more! What year was it? I think about 1945/6 but can’t be sure. My poor old Nana was the first to show signs, scratching in the space between her fingers and eventually other parts of her body. Despite mum bathing her skin with diluted Dettol and creams, the itching continued. In no time it had spread to other family members having no respect for young or old. My mother, a scrupulously clean woman was horrified somehow blaming herself for the present condition of her family! It soon became apparent that this was nor confined to our family alone. Every family in our street of tenement houses could be seen scratching until skin was left bleeding and raw. The local chemist was making a fortune selling over the counter products in a bid to relieve the ever present itch. Day or night there was no let up; one could not sleep with the ever constant itching and scratching. “What could it be” was the question everyone was asking!
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Fleas some bright spark answered nodding wisely! And so our very poor neighbourhood became a hive of activity. What few belongings the inhabitants of the tenement rooms possessed were dragged out, mattresses, bedding, furniture, in fact anything that was not nailed down! These were clean people and the fact that this had happened was a blow to their pride. Walls, floors nooks and crannies were scrubbed down and doused with the powder. The powder D.D.T. was in such demand the local chemist sold out and one had to travel about the City to find a shop that still had some left. I should mention here the effects and dangers of the powder was not known then, it was taken off the market (I think) around 1956.. We children would “compare” who had the rawest/reddest hands and it was considered a feather in ones cap if your “rash” was worse than any of the other kids! It was normal to see on the way to school children covered in this white substance giving the impression of a breed of grey haired children carrying school books, a strange sight! All was revealed when the evening paper headlines screamed “Scabies Epidemic” It not only hit our City but the whole of Ireland. Schools and factories closed down and a “fight back” was set in motion. Every household received a letter informing them to attend the local slipper baths on a certain day and given time. I recall this as though it were yesterday, perhaps because of the indignity of what occurred. Our family arrived on our given day, men and boys went in one direction while girls and women went in another. Each person had to take a bath, I shared one with my sister while mum and nana at least had the privacy of bathing on their own. The following is a sight that will remain with me for ever. On leaving the privacy of the bath cubicle we had to form a line, naked. Looking back one can imagine the horror and embarrassment of older ladies like my nana who still belonged to a world of modesty and decorum. I myself stood behind an older lady who was endeavouring to cover her nakedness with her hands!. On reaching the head of the line we were met with the following sight. Two very large ladies (Nurses?) sat by a huge tub containing a white liquid. They each had a broad hand brush, the type used to paste wallpaper. This was dipped into the white substance and we were “painted” all over our bodies but especially between fingers and toes. Of course on reaching our open sores it stung like mad. What a strange sight we must have made on leaving the building! A line of “little ghosts” led by older ones! Looking back I think, thankfully, this was the only time we had to go through this ordeal Of course we children could not believe our luck” weeks off school and it was not even summer holiday time! Bridget x
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Bridget:
You better not stop posting these wonderful stories! I am totally hooked. And Amen to all the good things already said about your writing. You really do have a gift for writing.
Pat
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Bridget rushes into a corner and blushes LOL
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Bridget, I've already told you how much I love your writing and your stories, don't you dare stop now!!! ;D
This is the funniest one yet, I could see Paddy in my mind's eye, quaking with fear and trying to hang onto his stiff drink... ;D
Prue
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Ah! Thank's Marie, Mo, and Prue, I have a confession to make Pru, I have fallen in love with Grandad Harry! What a handsome man! Bridget x
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Recollections, 1938.. Chalk and Cheese
Spitting on the old flat iron until the familiar sizzle appeared the now cold spare iron was put onto the back jet of the black leaded gas cooker. The freshly ironed clothes already covered two chairs in two neat piles with as much again ready to be ironed, but, finally it was finished at last.. The woman removed the “pipe cleaners” from the ends of her hair; they preceded the silver clip type curlers which would later become fashionable. Combing the hair through and patting it into place she then removed the cross over apron and carefully folded it before placing it in the drawer that held the clean tea towels. The Ponds empty tin was removed from the cupboard and the now shiny powder puff it contained was lightly brushed over the face, her only concession to vanity. Two brown paper bags were removed from the old dresser drawer and into each of these were placed one orange, one slim bar of Cadburys chocolate and a bar of nougat. After a few whispered words with an old lady, (her mother) she took the small chubby toddler by the hand and left the house. It was a long walk and the child lagged behind pulling at its mother’s hand. She would stop and lift the child all the while trying to protect the two brown paper bags containing the precious treats. So she proceeded, lifting and carrying the child until she was forced by the weight to put her down again. This went on until; finally they reached the bus stop. It was such a big step to board the bus, but with mummy’s help the child managed it. They soon settled down on what seemed a very long journey. Alighting from the bus they again walked but only a short walk this time. Tall black railings appeared with a gate set into the middle. No drive and almost immediately beyond the gate four deep concrete steps led to a huge wooden door with black studs placed down its full length a large black door knocker in it’s centre. Lifting the heavy knocker the woman let it fall twice and stepped back a pace. Even through the thickness of the door a bell could be heard clanging from within and finally, it opened. The person looking out was dressed from head to toe in black, a veil covering the hair completely with just the face showing. The child pulled back frightened, cowering behind the woman’s skirt. Words were exchanged and the woman and child were invited inside and then directed to a room. The woman later left the room, her heels making a clacking sound as she crossed the highly polished floor of the hall. The two brown paper bags now lay in the fold of her arm. The toddler was left, for a short time in the care of the lady in black. The woman returned, minus the bags and wiping her eyes,
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1949
I had only ever known my mum to “fall out” with two women, one, the lady who pawned her crocodile handbag, the one my Dad had sent her from Italy during the war. (Thread, Recollections, the unwanted Gift) and the other, well, while not a “falling out” I was aware she did not like the old lady who lived across the road from us. I have to be honest and say not a lot of people liked old Mrs T. Despite having a large family, children and grandchildren they did not often visit. I had just started to go dancing and Oh! How I loved this new world that was opening to me. Pencil skirts and little jersey tops, flat black pumps for jiving and of course, “bubble perms” I never gave the old lady across the road a second thought. Saturday night dances were my favourite despite strict orders from my Dad to be home by 10.00. Sunday morning would find us rushing to Mass at the last minute and sneaking into the back of the crowded church hoping our parish priest would not notice us latecomers! I swear that man had eyes in the back of his head! Without even turning around he would bellow out “Will all you young people who are crowding around the back of the church please come forward, there are plenty of seats down the centre aisle” Was he not aware we wanted to make a quick get away so we could discuss what boy had asked us to dance and who had walked us home the previous night? The silly man. On one such Sunday morning I found myself standing next to two girls. I did not know them but when the usual call blasted out to “Please come forward” we set off giggling and could not stop. After Mass I found myself walking along with the two girls and chatting away as if we had known each other all our lives. This then was my introduction to Julia and Christine the latter always called Tina. Imagine my surprise when reaching my street they too turned and entered it with me! At first I thought they were visiting but no, they informed me they had come to live there with their grandmother who happened to be old Mrs T. A year separated the girls, one would never know they were sisters; they shared neither looks nor personality, as different as chalk and cheese. Julia the older had a soft beauty, her blonde hair falling in deep natural waves around a serious face..
Even way back then I knew she would never make a decision without giving it a lot of thought, a bright dependable girl who did not make friends easily but when she did it would be for life. Her sister Tina was slightly smaller in height and frame her short brown curly hair framing an elfin mischievous face, a cheeky grin never far off. Soon the three of us were inseparable When we could manage to save and afford them even their choice in clothes could not be more different! Where Julia went for tailored skirts and nice blouses, Tina would opt for bright colours with beads galore. Looking back I am amazed that the three of us could form such a firm friendship, we differed in so many ways. Sometimes I likened us to a stew! So many different ingredients going into a big pot and yet, the end result a perfect taste to the pallet. Tina and I loved dancing, Julia did not and yet she would fall in with whatever we wanted to do and us, Tina and me with her. Somehow I expected to be “piggy in the middle” but that never happened, they were like night and day, hot and cold and yet, I found myself blending into this mixture as easily as eating or drinking. We all worked as machinists but not in the same place. Sadly, our lovely giddy times together came at a cost! As soon as I finished work, wolfed down my tea, I would dash across the road to see the girls. I was never invited in, but one or other of them would slip out on to the landing and inform me they were not allowed to come out until they had prepared dinner, washed up and done a load of housework. They did everything in the home and on top of this the grandmother Mrs T would take their wages from them and give them back coppers. The buying of clothes which I mentioned above would come later when they rebelled! We yearned to go swimming but did not have a swimming costume between us! Mum arrived home one day and told me “Guiney’s” department store had a great sale on and she had noticed they had bathing costumes for 4/6 “ I could not wait to tell the girls, but where were they going to get the four shillings and six pence ? I myself had ten shillings every week from my wages so knew I could manage it if I cut out the dancing for a week. Shock, shock, while I would have expected it of Tina the quiet Julia came to the fore and informed grandma that from now on they would be taking ten shillings a week from their wages and she could have the rest!!! I stayed well out of the way for several weeks not wanting to feel the wrath of Mrs T in case she thought it was my doing!
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We could not wait to get to the shop, worried in case they (the bathing costumes) were all sold out. Drat! They did have the elasticised ones but only in a canary yellow shade. Desperate, we bought three, one each. Julia, always the sensible one suggested we should embroider our initials to one side, no easy task on elasticised material! A dab hand with the needle she elected to do the work. My first “grown up bathing costume” and with my very own initial on the side. I preened and posed in front of my nanas full length mirror, Esther Williams eat your heart out! The following Sunday found us out in Dollymount, our nearest seaside. The road leading to the beach is long, the drop to the left hand side leading to sandy beaches and popular with families with young children. We opted for the right hand side where one had to clamber down over huge boulders to reach the waters edge, it was more private. Finding a secluded place we changed into our costumes and were soon splashing around in the sea. What a sight we must have looked, three yellow figures bobbing up and down in the waves. An hour or so later, we decided we would go and sunbathe on the rocks. Tina led the way with me close behind. A sudden shriek from Julia stopped us in our tracks! We turned to see her frantically pointing at us both, “In heavens’ name, what’s the matter” I asked Tina. It soon became apparent! Our now wet costumes had become see through! everything showed through, nothing left to the imagination!!! To make matters worse a group of lads had positioned themselves on the rocks during our swim calling out to us. Diving back into the safety and coverage of the waves we swam around and around hoping the lads would get fed up with the lack of response from the three yellow canaries and go away. They did eventually move off but not before our skin had shrivelled to a prune like texture and we staggered out of the sea, exhausted. Ahhh, so much for our bargain swimsuits!
Our halcyon days continued throughout that lovely summer, dancing, cycling and yes, even long walks while we awaited our next pay day. Tina, especially lived life to the full, living each day as if there was no tomorrow. Like a caged bird set free she wanted to taste and experience everything defying anyone to stop or get in her way! Soon, she was not prepared to accept the ground rules laid down by grandma, harsh though they were and returned from dances when she wanted to and not before. Julia would point out to her the sensible way to get around things but our headstrong little butterfly was not prepared to listen. Our lovely friendship continued only breaking up when romance entered our young lives. Julia, older than us by one year was the first to break away. She would meet and years later marry John, a young carpenter, her first and only love. I am told they had a wonderful and happy marriage eventually moving and setting up home in London. My itchy feet would take me far away to pastures green leaving Tina still living life to the full. We were never to meet again, although I was to learn later Tina’s eventual marriage was not a happy one. Violence and alcohol played a big part in the marriage. I wondered did they stay together and overcome the demons. I hoped so, or had the wings of our little butterfly become crushed and damaged along life’s way?
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Sometime in the 1960s
My younger sister had bought a new house and invited us over to Dublin see it. I was not familiar with the area where she now lived never having gone there before. Driving from the car ferry we made our way in what I hoped was the right direction. Arriving at a T junction and a set of traffic lights we stopped on the red light. Talk about Déjà Vu Turning to my husband I said “I’m sure I was in this place before” He replied, you probably were when you lived in Dublin many years ago” yet I could not recall having been in that part of the city. The large grey building directly opposite us was surrounded by black railings with a gate in its center. Just beyond the gate four deep concrete steps led up to a large wooden door. I just had time to notice a brass plaque on the wall and could just make out the word 'Convent'before we had to drive off.
Mum and I were such good pals, we would sit and talk for hours recalling our old street and neighbours back in Ireland. Curious, I asked about Mrs T and mum’s dislike of her. It emerged the daughter of the old lady (one of eight) was mum’s best friend.
Connie and mum went dancing together and eventually they both married and lived in the same street. Connie gave birth to two children but sadly died of tuberculosis at a very young age. Billy the young husband tried to struggle on but found it impossible to cope. The two girls were put into an orphanage
This really upset mum no end. No one knew what became of Billy. She always felt the grandmother or one of the now seven sisters of Connie should have stepped in and taken the girls, forecasting the grandmother would soon have them when they were grown up and wage earning. How right she was! I had always thought I could only remember back from the age of seven years but, hearing this story sent me flying back to something long since forgotten, a memory was emerging. I felt compelled to ask mum did she ever visit the children. Yes, she replied but not very often, She could not afford to drag her brood on to busses and travel across the city. I told mum I was sure she had taken me along on one of her visits describing what I could remember. Mum could not remember. How vividly I remember the oranges and the nuns in their black habits. I can place the year because there would soon be no oranges only those on the black market and mum could certainly not afford those! I must have been about four years old. How strange that I would unknowingly become friends with two girls who were the daughters of mum’s late friend. Of course mum must have known who they were when they came to live in our street but why had she never told me then? Was this why she was always so kind to them? Who knows, so many questions left unanswered? As Julia was a year older than Tina she could have left the convent when she was sixteen. Was her love for her sister so deep she elected to stay there another year until they could both leave together? Her unofficial protector, And darling Tina, let loose into a world that was oh so strange and new to her, who then could blame her for her lust for life, free at last from the restrictions and rules of convent life. The caged birds were free to soar at last.
Bridget x
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;D
You're not the only one Bridget, he's a bit of a hit with the ladies here on Rootschat!
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The sands of time have swiftly flowing through the hour glass and with it our trials and tribulations! Our family have growing up and are scattered with children of their own. I have jumped forward through the years and my now aged parents have long since left Dublin and living near me in a City in England.
Older Recollections. The day I robbed a Bank!!
I was hot and sweaty as I pulled /dragged the heavy Hoover from my house to mum’s. I muttered a few choice expletives under my breath and took great delight imagining the expression on my Dad’s face as I did so!! He never swore despite having worked as a docker and having spent some years in the army as a sergeant. On the rare occasion he took the Lords name in vain he would immidetely apoligise. It appalled him to hear a woman swear. This “ritual” was carried out almost every other day and all down to Da’s refusal to buy mum a new Hoover! How could two people be so different and still be together after fifty odd years of marriage I asked myself? As mentioned in earlier “Recollections” my mum was the soul of generosity always willing to share what little she had with less fortunate neighbours in our street of tenement houses. My Da on the other hand was completely opposite. Mum’s love knew no bounds and she demonstrated this in a thousand ways while my dad ruled the home with a discipline more suited to an army barracks. All of our large family toed the line where dad was concerned, well, almost all! By the time I reached my late teens I rebelled and stood up to Da rebelling at what I saw as injustices to my beloved mum. I cannot honestly say he was mean with money but he lived in a world where he thought prices remained the same and the housekeeping allowance he gave mum remained the same for many years despite increases in rent and the cost of living. If for instance, Mum needed a new coat my brothers and sisters would get together muttering and arguing as to which one of us was going to approach Da and ask for it! Without fail I was always elected with the words “Let Bridget ask, she is not afraid to approch him” and this from my older siblings! After many hours of practicing my approach before entering the Lion’s den (and too young to have a drink to sustain me) I would venture forward into the arena flying the flag for mum and her new coat!! “Dad, don’t you think it’s about time mum had a new coat?” (Dad) Why? What’s wrong with the one she has? (Me) “Well, it is rather shabby and the last time that style was in vogue Mrs Simpson was wearing it” (Dad, now spluttering with shock) “I bought your mum a new coat when we went on holidays” I point out that famous one and only holiday to Germany took place some five years ago when we almost had to use thumb screws to outfit mum for the occasion! Reluctantly, I am given the go ahead to buy the coat. He is unaware I have already bought mum a new coat which is now secretly stashed away in my wardrobe and several days later I produce and bill him for the coat adding several pounds to the price. The cries of “HOW MUCH” can be heard in the neighbouring borough!!! I pacify him by telling him it should have cost a great deal more but, as I knew the girl in the shop I got a great discount! How delighted I was to be able to pass the money on to mum, she never spent it on herself but would send it on to a younger sister who was struggling with a young family. I never had any qualms or feelings of guilt about this. Dad called at his local every evening for a couple of drinks and was not averse to buying all and sundry a drink. I reasoned it was better for mum to have it than his drinking cronies, I even encouraged mum to sneak a pound or two from his pockets when he came home the worse for wear! Honesty was the name of the game as far as mum was concerned; she would not steal a penny from dad no matter haw tipsy he got. Despite our differences, Da and I had a healthy respect for each other. I was always very upfront telling him in no uncertain way what I thought even if this resulted in an argument which it invariably did! While I abhorred his tightness with money I admired his courage and tenacity, also his brilliant work ethos. Having lost a leg on the 25th of January from an industrial accident he was back at work in March of the same year despite excruciating pain adjusting to the artificial leg. I did all I could to help mum and dad even down to decorating their 3 bed roomed house on my, own fitting it in while on shift work including nights. While mum was horrified and feeling guilty at this mammoth task, dad took it in his stride expecting it of me. He would never say “I wonder if you could possibly do this for me “but rather, “I want you to sort out “some problem or other. Both well into old age I was by now well versed in his ways and in a perverse sort of way felt that despite our many clashes over the years I was the one he turned to his, “port in a storm”
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And yet another morning of lugging my Hoover around to mum’s to help with her cleaning. Always a fastidious woman and despite her age she still loved her home to be spick and span. On this particular morning we tackled all the downstairs area before venturing upstairs to change the bedding and clean the bedrooms. At this stage in their lives they each had their own bedroom, I suggested mum “do” her room while I did dads. As mentioned previously, dad had an artificial leg and also a spare one in case of emergencies! The “spare” stood in his bedroom complete with shoe and sock, (no! don’t even go there!) On entering dad’s bedroom I never could manage to suppress the laughter this sight evoked in me! Racing against the clock to make sure I was in time for my work shift I hurriedly set about my task and in doing so knocked over the spare leg!!! As long as I live I shall never forget the sight that met me as I bent to straighten it up!! There, tumbling from within it’s hollow capacity were large numbers of pound notes and five pound notes. I could not believe what I was seeing; my Da’s secret bank and I had stumbled upon it by accident! My hysterical laughter brought mum rushing in from her bedroom. She almost fainted with shock at the sight, and this belonged to a man who had complained he could not afford to buy a new Hoover! There must have been about five hundred pounds, a fortune in those far off days. After the shock came the anger, on my part at least, my mind recalling the many occasions I had to wheedle and cagole to get him to change or buy something for the house. Mum, a deeply religious lady even went as far as to utter the immortal words “Well, the tight old Bu—er” and believe me, that was something that creased me up so much I was hysterical with laughter! We both ended up on the floor laughing so much we were unable to talk, tears streaming down our eyes and holding our aching sides. “You see, I pointed out to mum, despite your prostrations I was right to add a pound here and there when I had to bill dad for something! The end justified the means. Mum almost fainted on the spot when I suggested we remove enough money to buy a new Hoover! I can hold my hand on my heart and honestly say I have NEVER done a dishonest act in my life. In this particular instance I looked at my wonderful little mum and like the trailer for an old black and white movie scenes flashed before my eyes. The farce we went through to get mum a new coat, the times we had asked for money towards the decorating with the usual reply “Where do you think I would get the money” So many little unpleasant memories which, when woven together formed a blanket of selfishness worthy of my Da’s selfish shoulders! No, I felt not one iota of shame as I calmly removed fifty pounds from his secret stash! Poor mum, was in a state of collapse at my audacity and despite her protest of “He will go mad, there will be murder” I smugly carried out my dastardly deed with I might add, much glee at the thought of a lot less pints at the local bar.We, or should I say I, bided my time waiting for the roof to cave in and after a week, not a sound or a bellow!!! My dad had bluffed for so many years telling all who were prepared to listen that no matter how drunk he got he could tell if a penny was missing from his pocket!! Well, fifty pounds was now missing from his pocket, or should I say his leg (LOL) and he was not even aware of it!! I waited another week before going to the shop and buying mum a reconditioned Hoover which cost £25. As already stated, mum was such an honest and devout woman she could not live with the guilt of my dastardly act!! I have to admit I was angry when she confessed to putting the remaining £25 back in “The Leg” dad’s secret bank. The following year would see her donate a £1 in the church poor box until she had repaid the stolen £25 we had paid for the Hoover which, by the way was trouble from day one! Who, reading this believes in “Poetic Justice? P. S. While dad and I did not "get on" all the time I really loved and admired him.
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Hello Briget x.
I have a sister named Brigid, by the way.
I see your many stories and would ask you to visit
Link no longer working 2015
where my son, who published a book I wrote about my parents, has set up a site that has photos from the book and also two chapters to read for free from the book. If you check out the book - BARNEY AND MOLLY - on Amazon it also has a 'search inside' with the first chapter to read for free.
So you could read a chunk of my family recollections to compare with your own. Have you ever approached a publisher? My own book is a family effort and was a labour of love (for my parents) for me.
All the best,
Martin
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Martin, As I have a birthday coming up next week, this book is already on my "list". Reading the extracts is like reading a part of my own childhood!! I can't wait to read it. I have seen so many Molly's in the street where I grew up and have nothing but admiration for them and the struggles they endured bringing up their families. Good luck and I hope the sales of the book is huge. Bridget
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Thank you very much for that, Bridget. That's very very kind of you. Please let's stay in touch to find out what you think of my family story. What we did was we printed a family 'special edition' of the book that is now an heirloom that all my parents' children, granchildren, great-grandchildren have to keep. In the family edition, all the names of our parents' descendants are listed. It has become a treasure. To date, not much more than a handful of the paperbacks have sold. For me that's a bit of a disappointment but writing the book was the most important thing of all; keeping those memories alive and providing a link between the generations to come and the two people - my parents - who started the whole saga.
The young generation in Ireland probably find it hard to comprehend just how recently we were struggling just to get by. We wouldn't want it to be any other way, of course. But preserving memories of the past is important.
Best wishes from my new hometown - Berlin. Martin
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I had known my dear friend Ann so many years we could say anything to each other without giving or taking offense. Yet, I was surprised the day she informed me she really hated the Toby jug I had displayed in my lounge saying “He looks evil” I had always thought he looked a cheerful, happy sort of fellow! . The jug is one of my most cherished possessions, that and a small silver bon bon dish. Both had belonged to my beloved granny, then my mum and were now mine and had been for a great number of years. I have only to close my eyes and I am once again transported back to my childhood tenement home and see exactly where the jug stood for many years on top of the dresser. In the far off days of my childhood there were no such things as a milk delivery services. We would be given a clean white jug and sent to a shop called “Early’s” just around the corner in Parnell St. We called it the dairy, it sold only milk. About six very large churns took up most of the floor space. When the jug was placed on the counter and the order given Mrs Early in a spotless white apron would come from behind the counter, remove the heavy churn lid and insert a silver coloured measure on a long handle into the depths of the churn. The measure was then very carefully raised so as not to spill a drop while it was transferred to the jug. I can’t recall the price of a pint of milk way back then but do remember Mrs Early always gave us a liquorice all sorts sweet!
I stood gazing up at the dresser always mesmerized by the smiling jug looking down on me. I had never seen anything like it before and felt, neither had any of my friends in the street. Every time I was sent to the dairy for milk, I would beg my mammy to let me use the Toby jug to get it. I was too young to understand it was just an ornament and not fit for that purpose. I would beg and plead but all to no avail. If truth be known I really just wanted to impress my young friends, I could just imagine the Ohs and Ahs if, and when they caught sight of it! The day mammy shouted through from the front room, “Go to Early’s for a pint of milk, I have left the white jug and money on the kitchen table”. I looked at the white jug and then, as if in a hypotonic state, my eyes were drawn to my beloved Toby jug on top of the dresser! Only the week before the visiting missionary at the children’s sodality in Dominic St. had put terror in our young hearts as he warned of the devil that would come to tempt us into doing wrong.. I guess that old devil must have been very busy that week as he was making an early call on our house! Not only did he grace us with his presence, he also helped me pull the heavy kitchen chair towards the dresser where I climbed up and stood on tip toe to grasp my beloved friend! I took my time going to the shop, in fact I dawdled and loitered wanting every child in the street to see and share the jug..
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From our hall door the cry “Bridget, have you not gone to that shop yet” sent me rushing around the corner for the milk. Mrs Early’s strange look and her question “Are you sure your mammy wants the milk in this “were laid to rest as this innocent face looked up at her nodding the head vigorously! “ That’s what mammy gave” me I assured her. That poor old devil must have been paid overtime that week, as even on the way home I did not rush, seeking out a face that had not seen the jug on my way to the shop! I arrived home, hoping I could switch the milk before mammy had realized what I had done. Of course I had left the white jug on the table for all to see and to cap it all when I did proffer the now brimming Toby jug it had years of accumulated dust floating on top!! The precious milk had to be thrown out and my normally placid mammy tanned my backside despite my cry’s of “But mammy, honest to God, it wasn’t my fault, it was that dirty old devil, he tempted me.
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The window of memory is slightly ajar and yet, I know were I to open it to its full width the memories will come pouring out, and so many I can afford to be selective! Should I choose a funny one, sad one? Perhaps neither. Might it not be better to write about something that affected our whole community? A place that was central to our lives in the Dublin of 1940s, the Pawnshop. Even now, I cannot bring myself to smile when I see funny picture postcards depicting the three brass balls. Admittedly, to the uninitiated they might raise a smile but for those who used them way back then the use of the pawnshop could dictate whether the rent was paid that week or if the family eat! Jobs were in short supply and the men would be lucky to get even one days work doing “casual” work, usually on the docks. I think I only ever remember four men in our street of twenty seven houses who were “tradesmen” Two carpenters, an electrician and a painter and decorator, they were the lucky ones. The women did not go out to work then, it just wasn’t done and apart from that they had large families to look after. If one walked to the top of our street and turned left into Parnell Street the first thing one would see would be John Brereton’s pawn shop straight ahead. The black painted shop had two wide steps leading up to a window between two doors. The door on the left was where my mum and all the neighbours entered with their pledges, those that were lucky enough to have something to pawn! As a child, I never took to much notice of the window or its contents. My little friends and I amused ourselves by rambling down Henry Street looking into Arnott’s great big windows and picking the beautiful dress/shoes we would buy when we were older and very rich! Cries of “I’m having that one, (pointing to a dress) would bring the reply, “You can’t have that one, I saw it first!” If we got bored doing this, only then would we go to gaze into the window of the Pawnbroker and “pick” our wedding rings and anything else that took our fancy for “when we are big girls” As an adult, I would never think about this (the pawnbrokers window) as anything but “The window of broken dreams” Black velvet pads holding dozens of wedding rings pledged temporally by the owners and sadly, never to be redeemed due to poverty.. How their owners must have started off their married life, young couples madly in love and full of hopes and plans for a future that never materialised. How desperate they must have been to part with this most precious gold band, a token of the love they shared and yet, driven to do so to feed hungry children or pay the rent on a room in a tenement house rather than face eviction! They had held on to them till the last and a sense of shame prevailed until they could dash down to Woolworths in Henry Street to replace it with a cheap brass imitation wedding band. The only time a woman from our street would enter the door on the right of the window was to pledge a wedding ring. War medals, the ribbons now faded were relegated to the back of the window. Had some young man come back from a far off battle field proudly showing them to his family? Did he dream of one day showing them to grown up sons, regaling them with heroic tales of valour and courage on the field of battle? Oh, so many dreams and plans, crushed and blown away like sand in a storm.. When there was nothing left to pledge, desperate women would make up bundles of assorted clothes, anything from a cherished christening robe to shabby work shirts. They silently prayed the pawnbroker would not open the bundle but take it “on trust” Sadly, the wily men behind the counter were well up to all the tricks pulled from sheer desperation and the bundle would be opened for examination!! “Ah missus, will you for Jaysus sake take it home that will be left on me hands, sure who’s going to buy that bundle of auld tat?” No amount of pleading and promises to redeem it next week softened the heart. and a dejected woman with drooping shoulders would leave the shop wondering where the next meal was to come from..
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One of my little friends and I were returning from school one day when we spotted her father,( an alcoholic ) outside the shop. He removed his shoes, entered in his stocking feet and came out minutes later clutching a pawn ticket in his hand as he hurriedly entered the pub two doors down. . The old saying “An ill wind” could be applied to Brereton’s in one respect. A young man who had gotten a young girl “in the family way” could pick up a cheap second hand wedding ring from the shop rather than buy a brand new one from some fancy jewellers in town. I often wondered would some young girl unknowingly end up buying her own mothers wedding band.
My maternal grandfather the shoe/boot maker lived with us. Even as a child I knew his brown suit was really something special. Edwardian in style with its narrow legs, longish jacket it had a rich brown velvet collar and pocket flaps and was finished off with a row of brown velvet buttons just above the split cuff. Granddad was a “humpty dumpy “figure of a man, short legged and well rounded in girth. Looking back I don’t think (because of his shape) it could have been bought off the peg. The material was rich and warm keeping its shape for oh, so many years. It looked as if it had just come from the shop. I wondered how he could have afforded to have a suit made to measure just as I had questioned the wonderful taste and style of his wife, my beloved Nana. When he wore his brown suit Granddad always wore brown “Albert” boots, elasticated at the sides, these he had made himself.
When dad could not get any work and times were really hard mum would remove granddads suit from the wardrobe, the hanger and suit completely covered by an old dress to keep it in pristine condition. Off she would disappear around the corner, heading towards Brereton’s to pledge and hopefully redeem it at the weekend. Grandfather seldom went out so the only time he required the suit was when delivering a pair of his beautiful hand crafted shoes to the very “posh” shop in Capel Street who employed him. Pat, a really kind man who had worked at the pawnshop for years never even removed the old dress to examine the suit, he knew quality when he saw it and believe me, he had seen it many times!! I guess by now the suit felt more at home in Brereton’s than it did in our wardrobe! This went on for years and meanwhile, at least two of the girls were old enough to go to the pawnshop. The dreaded words “I want you to go to the pawnshop” would elicit cries of, Ah mammy, send her (pointing to sister) “What if one of the fellows I know should see me going into the Pawnshop?” And dramatically “I’d die, I’d be mortified mammy” and from mammy “You can die all you want, and are these wonderful fellows you know going to put some dinner on the table? They would only agree to go if the famous suit was wrapped in a brown paper parcel. Leaving the house they would approach the pawnshop the long way round peeking from behind corners to make sure the coast was clear with not a “fellow” they knew in sight. LOL
What happened next was almost like bereavement as far as our street was concerned!! Young Mr. Brereton took over the business from his father and in this case it really was a case of “New broom sweeps clean” No more flat irons, clothes bundles, shoes and such like would be accepted. So much had accumulated in his father’s time they simply had no more room for it. They would still take rings, medals, Albert watches and other such valuables. The irony of it! Had we had such things in our possession we would have had no need to go to the shop! While having pity for those affected by the new rulings, mammy felt safe enough with granddads beautiful suit. “Never count your chickens” springs to mind here! Mammy went confidently along with the suit and young Mr Brereton demanded she remove the dress covering it. “But this is an Edwardian suit”, cried the nonplussed young man.
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Of course it is, sure isn’t this what all the young fellows are wearing now, Teddy boy suits” My young fellow (son)doesn’t like all those bright colours that’s the fashion, greens and blues, they just don’t suit him so he had this specially made in a nice warm shade of brown, beautiful isn’t it? A real one off!” Dear old Pat stood in the background trying to suppress the laughter, of course he had known for years the suit was as old as the hills despite its wonderful condition but he had kindly turned a blind eye to that fact! It really was a "Teddy Boy" suit but Ma was really stretching the truth. She did not have a son old enough to be wearing such a suit but, as that old saying goes "Needs Must"
LOL Bridget x
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The smaller children would sit around the fire their skin red, shiny and glowing having just had their turn in the old tin bath. We would beg Nana who was then still with us to tell us a story. She told us tales of Irish folklore always ending with one about the “Banshee” and frightening us so much we went running off to bed! At that time she had not yet entered her “childish state” and was a great help to mum. Our father was then serving in the army and was in Italy, mum was kept so busy looking after seven of us children and appreciated Nana’s help. One morning we heard the usual shout from the postman calling our name. My brother went to the hall to collect the post and came rushing back clutching a parcel addressed to Mum. Seven eager and excited children gathered round as Mum carefully undid the string and unfolded the strong brown wrapping paper. Eager little hands reached out impatiently trying to hurry up the process by just tearing at the paper!! Mum was not having any of this, we had to wait as the paper was carefully folded and the twine put into a loop to be used again. Had dad sent us a present? What would we get? Finally the last piece of tissue paper was removed to reveal in all its glory a tan coloured crocodile skin handbag with a gold coloured clasp. Mum examined it from all angles, Ohs and ahs coming from the girls and grunts of disappointments from the lads!! Of course we were too young then to realize this was about as much use as a chocolate fireguard to Mum. As mentioned in an earlier recollection, the women in our street just did not carry handbags; they had nothing to put into them. The old accordion type purse was the norm, it had enough compartments to house their few coppers and some pawn slips. As a grown up, I would look back on this gift and wonder what ever was my dad thinking about when he sent it? Was it some last grand romantic gesture on his part? This was around the time our sixteen year old brother had died and mum was heartbroken. A man of few romantic words was this his (misplaced) way of telling mum he loved her even though he could not be with her at this dreadful time? To put it bluntly, mum was none to pleased! There were so many things we needed and a fancy handbag was not one of them! The bag was put aside,and forgotten.
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The rents for the rooms in the houses were from 2/6 to four (old) shillings, depending on the size. No matter what else they went short of, paying the rent was a top priority for most people. As there were always newly married couples desperate to rent a room the landlords would think nothing of evicting a none payer knowing he could fill the room with new tenants immediately. I have to say I only remember this almost happening once. Mrs D----n lived with her daughter two houses down from ours. Can you believe the daughter was frowned upon because she had dyed her hair with peroxide until it was almost white in colour! This was a rare thing to do back then (1943) and was considered brassy (tacky, not nice) The mother, Mrs D was a really nasty old woman and my mum did not like her because she had refused to help Nana across the road one day, nana’s eyesight was very poor. They were well behind with the rent and were due to be evicted but most unusual, none of the neighbours appeared to be bothered. As the time for the eviction drew closer, I knew mum was getting upset and at the eleventh hour she could bear it no longer. Grabbing the nearest container, (the now famous handbag) she went all around the street asking for any little donation to help pay the back rent. True to form, despite their dislike of this woman everyone put whatever they could afford in the bag, sixpences, three pence pieces and even coppers. The collection generated not only enough money to bring the rent up to date but also get in a weeks shopping! Trusting the bag into Mrs Ds hands mum told her it was collected by the neighbours and telling her to pass the bag back when she had sorted out her problems. It must have been some six months later when mum remembered she had not got her handbag back from Mrs D. I was sent to ask for its return. Nervously I knocked on her door and when she appeared said, “Mrs D, mum said can she please have her handbag back?” Glaring down on this frightened little girl, (aged 9) she replied, “Tell your mum to ---- off I pawned that months ago” Of course mum was furious, it was too late to redeem the bag even had she been able to afford to do so. Mum never again spoke to Mrs D. or had anything to do with her. Even after all this time I would love to know what ever happened to “The Bag” Bridget x
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bridget i love you recollections
i have no irish relatives or connections in any way, i just pop into this section every now and then to read your wonderful stories.
they're so alive and rich in detail, i can't praise them enough.
have you ever thought about getting a book published? if not you really should.
look forward to the next one
sue
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HELLO BRIDGET, HOW I LOVE YOUR WEE STORIES,I'AM SITTING READING THEM ON THE COMPUTER, AND LAUGHLING OUT LOUD MY FAMILY LOOK AT ME AS IF I'AM LOSING IT.
SO MUCH REMINDS ME OF MY OWN CHILDHOOD.THANK GOD WE STILL HAVE WAKES,AND MOST PEOPLE ARE STILL WAKED FROM THEIR HOMES. PEOPLE COME, SOME MAYBE YOU HAV'ENT SEEN FOR YEARS AND YOU STILL GET THE PEOPLE THAT GO TO ALL THE WAKES, YOU GET A GOOD LAUGH AS WELL.
MANY BLESSINGS TO YOU.
MARY.
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Another well-told story, Bridget. Please keep at it. These are precious and I think that so many people can relate to them in their own ways.
Thanks again,
Pat
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Thanks Sue, Mary ,and Pat, your replies are so much appreciated. I have looked at "Views" and seen the figure 1,171. Does that really mean that amount of people have read this thread?? if so, I am (for once in my life) struck dumb. I love writing my little stories, LOL I am too old to do anything else! Ye Gods! I would never dream of committing these to a book, were it not for the spellchecker they would not be on here! I was never out of the dunces corner at school. I am just so delighted to learn people are enjoying them, for me that is great reward. Love, Bridget
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I've said it before and I'll say it again: your stories are wonderful, Bridget!!
I just love them - they make me laugh out loud :) Not many stories can do that.
Prue ;)
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Hello Bridget just love your recollections so good and touching. Hope you do somemore.. Can i ask if we have any connection i have a Andrew Heneley and a Ruth Cairns married in Liverpool in 1877 a Catholic Marriage and one of the witness,s was Bridget Lawler the other was John Lynch did any of your Lawlers move to Liverpool ?.
Best Wishes Trudi...
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Hi Trudi, Thanks for your message. Wish I could help you but sadly, my Bridget Lawlor ( mum's sister)never left Ireland. Wishing you success and good look in your research. Bridget
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Hi Bridget
I to love to read your stories and recounts, you remind me of my FAVOURITE author Maeve Binchey, Please keep them coming, i my self have no Irish in my tree, but just love your stuff ......bless you
Craiz
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Thank's Craiz, I really appreciate that, I can't tell you how delighted I am to learn people are enjoying my wee stories. It makes the effort so worth while. Bridget
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It was time to get the spare bedroom ready. My family were due to visit and I needed to empty drawers and bedside cabinets to make room for their clothes. This clear out was well overdue, why oh why had I saved some of this rubbish? Clothes that were never going to fit me again in a million years! Books and other items that long ago should have gone to the local charity shop and what was this, I pondered, as I picked up the old deep cardboard box from the back of a drawer? Tipping its contents on to the bed I gazed at the array of odd buttons, broken chains, huge “Dynasty” type earrings and poppet beads in all shapes and colours with matching earrings of course! LOL. I suppressed a giggle, ye Gods, had I really worn these? And then I saw it, the yellowing tissue paper concealing, yet lovingly protecting its contents like a soft shawl around a new baby. Even before I unwrapped it I knew it’s every flaw from the tiny scratches to the exposed cheap metal from where the “rolled gold” had, in time, worn away. A man’s signet ring, the memories it evoked engraved in my mind as clear as the two initials engraved on its square front T.F. Sitting on the bed and looking at this ring I am hurled back down the corridor of time, I feel sad, reflection on times long since gone and never to be recaptured again. A time of innocence and naivety, where sex and the mention of it was taboo. Golden summer days, when, if one was lucky enough to own a bicycle, ( I always had to borrow one!) a ride out to the mountains and country side with a bottle of pop and a packed lunch was an exciting and memorable adventure. Our school days were now behind us as were our school “sweethearts” those little boys with ever runny noses and shiny cuffs. This then was our “in between time” neither child nor yet woman even if we thought otherwise! Too old to play street games and yet, too young to go courting, (going steady had not yet entered our vocabulary). In those days we had left school at 14 and I was already into a year working. How grown up I felt when I was finally allowed to go dancing! Despite the dance finishing at 12.00 I was under strict orders to be home by 10.00. The year was 1949: I came in at the time of the big band era and learned to jive to the sound of Glenn Miller and other big bands whose names have long since been forgotten. Soon, they were replaced by my (then) idols Guy Mitchell, All Martino and my supreme idol, Eddie Fisher. It was at one such dance I was to meet my first “grown up” boyfriend. The casual “Can I walk you home?” would lead to more dates and (sigh) my first romance!! Having just gained permission to go dancing, the forbidden boy friend had to be kept a secret from my dad. Our summer days were spent cycling in the countryside, a treat for this inner city kid away from the tenement house environment. The bleak winter months brought its problems, most times we were broke with not enough money to get us into the local picture house, thus denying kisses and cuddles on the back row! We walked around the town freezing and wishing we had married friends we could visit just so we could get in from the cold. How all that would change when I was invited home to meet his family.
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Nervous and tightly clutching his hand we arrived at the green painted door with its highly polished knocker and letterbox. How impressed I was! I had never known anyone who had a 'whole' house to themselves before. Imagine! the privicy. The long hall with its linoleum and carpet runner led into the cosiest kitchen I had ever seen. A huge black range took up almost one side of the back wall while the space opposite boasted a very large dresser, its shelves and hooks laden with matching blue and white delph. The kitchen table fitted snugly in front of a window which looked out on to a back yard freshly white washed, with an abundance of flowers in assorted pots and containers their colour made even more vibrant against the white background. How I learned to love this family, one sister my own age and another older sister who owned the house with her husband, both parents were dead. I became a regular visitor and was always made to feel welcome. The hissing of the gas fire and the popping sound it made when it required another shilling in the meter was the only sound in the “parlour” the room in which we were allowed to do our “courting” by his understanding sister. The glow from the gas fire reflected on the brass fender and matching companion set on the spotless grate. A small but cosy room, it contained a three piece Rexene suite with the obligatory lace head rest and arm covers. A sideboard displayed an array of family photos in frames. With the curtains drawn and the overhead low wattage bulb casting a warm glow over the room I thought I was in heaven! To date our courting had been carried out in dark shop doorways and always looking over my shoulder in case my dad would happen along. Oh! The magic of that room when we were allowed to use it, we never sat on the settee but cuddled up together on the armchair sharing very chaste kisses. No groping of boobs or bottoms! How well my convent school had hammered home the sin of lust! LOL. On nights when we could afford to, we would dash out to the local chip shop and rush back to eat from the paper wrappings before the hissing gas fire. Yet, all was not perfect in our cosy little world. The offending object was a large horn attached to a polished wooden box with the large lettering “His Master’s Voice” our only means of music! I collapsed in gales of laughter when I searched and found only two old (78) records of (wait for it) Arthur Tracy known as the street singer and his rendering of “Martha” While I can’t recall the name of the other singer I do vividly remember the song “ I couldn’t sleep a wink last night” It was a wind up gramophone where one turned a handle until you felt the spring tighten, one then lifted the arm and placed the needle on the edge of the record and at treble the speed Arthur Tracy’s voice would emerge sounding more like Maria Callas!!! As the spring unwound the voice then really slowed down and poor old Arthur would sound like Paul Robeson!
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Our passionate yet chaste kisses and cuddles were exciting to this 15year old, perhaps because they were forbidden? When my dad asked” Where are you going” I would tell him I was going to my friend Mary’s house to listen to her new records! At this time I was earning 30 shillings (£1.50) a week as an apprentice machinist, mum took £1 and I had ten whole shillings (50p) spends LOL Months before T----- birthday I had seen a signet ring in a small jewelers shop and decided I would get it as a birthday present. The Jewelle allowed me to go in each week and pay whatever small amount I could afford off it. The day arrived when the final payment was made and I then asked for the initials to be engraved on the ring. I had the princely sum of one shilling and sixpence in my pocket and to my horror the cost was two shillings and sixpence!! Seeing my disappointment this kind man agreed to accept my small sum for the engraving. I spent hours planning how I would hand over the gift, I wanted it to be “special” moment, never having bought a gift for any boy before this. I came up with the bright idea of wrapping the ring in a toffee wrapper and making sure he would pick that one in the dim light of his sister’s parlour! Of course my plan backfired and the poor lad nearly chocked to death. LOL We would spend almost three years together in what was still and would remain an innocent relationship. I had become restless and edgy with my work and the feeling of wanting to “spread my wings” really kicked and I decided to leave my homeland for pastures green. T------ took my decision very badly and begged me to stay but I had made up my mind. I think by this time I was aware he was not “the one” It would be two years before I returned home and the very next morning he arrived on our doorstep. By this time I was engaged to the chap who would become my first and late husband. I panicked, as he was due at our house any minute now and I did not want him to find T----there. I agreed to go for a walk with him, anything to get him out of the way. We walked and talked all the time he begging me to change my mind despite my pointing out that what we had shared was “puppy love” a first love! When I refused to change my mind he removed the ring I had given him from his finger and as he handed it back to me said “Well, I guess I will not needing this any more, before he walked away. I had always kept in touch with his sisters and still do to this day, over fifty years of correspondence although the eldest died four years ago. I never saw him again but later learned (from letters) he had married and had several children. An indication that he never forgave me is illustrated by the following. Calling to visit his sisters one day he saw a letter from me to them that had arrived that morning, casually glancing at it he obviously recognized my handwriting and angrily swept it from the table to the floor before leaving the house. How sad I was to learn of this, sad that I had unintentionally hurt someone so badly. How I wished I would bump into him on one of my rare visits home and be given the chance to talk and explain myself better. Surely he would understand love can’t be forced no matter how kind or nice a person is, could we not still be friends? Sadly, I never got the chance, his sister wrote to tell me of his passing last year. The ring which had been in my possession for over fifty years laid there, a constant reminder of carefree teenage years and first love. I do not know why I had held on to this cheap rolled gold ring all these years. Perhaps having it reminded me of first love, and beautiful summer halcyon days never to be relived again, who knows? Some time ago I wrote a letter to my friend ,his sister telling her the story and explaining the facts behind the ring. I wondered, would she like to have it? Of course its value was even worth less than the stamps and the cost of sending it. Yes, she replied, she would love to have it. Today she wears it on her finger, a reminder of what might have been but what was not meant to be. I myself went on to marry the chap I was engaged too. This marriage would be blessed with two children and we spent very many happy years together before he died at a comparatively young age.
. Bridget
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Childhood Recollections' Reasons and my Patchwork Quilt
Were you to ask me what I did two days ago, in all honesty I don’t think I could tell you! Yet I ask myself how I have managed to dredge up events and happenings of 60yrs ago. Had those memories been so bad they had embedded themselves in my mind never to be forgotten? Certainly not, while they might seem so to others who had, fortunately not known what it was like to live in such conditions, to me and my family (and thousands of other families) it was the norm, what had we to compare it with? I can honestly say the only bad memory I have to this day is that of the rats which invaded our home and the homes of those living around us. My mind is like a boiling cauldron of memories waiting to boil over and spill out on to the pages, the memories coming so rapidly I cant get them down quickly enough! Alas, if they could but come in their proper sequence they might make better reading. Like a child, randomly plucking the petals from a flower so I write as I greedily grasp those memories from my mind in whatever order they come. I can’t explain the urge and compulsion which has come upon me to commit them to paper! Fear perhaps that maybe a year or so from now they will have been obliterated from this old mind like snowflakes falling on wet ground. Coming into genealogy late in life has taught me the value of diaries, records and papers, second of course to the spoken word. How many of us on the boards regret not listening to the words of older relatives of yesteryear? On the rare occasion when I have sat with my two grown up children (both living abroad) recalling events of my childhood, relating stories of not only their grandparents but also great grandparents I have noted the polite replies of “Really? How interesting” or “That’s great Mum, I am so pleased for you” on finding an all important certificate. In my heart I know they are not really ready to become part of this wonderful imaginary patchwork quilt which to me, represents my family. The recently added rich colourful pieces representing the new additions, our babies, coming into a world where hopefully they will never know want or hunger. And as I travel back in time with my quilt some patches retain their brilliance while others lose it, the pieces becoming dull, dark and courser, the far edge leading me to my great great grandparents and The Irish Potato Famine. In time, I hope my children will become interested in their background and add a rich vibrant colour to that patchwork quilt, the real reason perhaps for starting the thread “Childhood Recollections”? And so, I shall inflict some more memories to the board and offer apologies to our lovely young members who I must be boring to tears. Bridget x
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Our Eccentric Aunt Bridget
I suppose I should fill in a little background on my Aunt Bridget which might account for her later behavior. She was the youngest of three children and when still a very young girl was taken to live in England by her father’s (my grandfathers) very well to do sister. This lady was matron of a large hospital in the north of England, a spinster who took the child from the slums of Dublin and lavished all sorts on her. She wore beautiful clothes and was sent to a good school as well as being given her own bank book where a fixed amount was lodged every week. She was taught the value of money and knew how to handle it. My own mum recalls the day she arrived back in Ireland; I’m not sure how old she was then but think she was in her teens. The family dressed in their best clothes and went to meet her off the boat in what was then Kingstown (?) My mother always smiled as she recalled her first sighting of her. She described “this vision” which appeared at the top of the gangplank dressed in an all white lace dress with matching parasol shading her from the sun, fine white stockings and white satin shoes completed the outfit. She was confidently issuing orders to a porter who was dragging her trunk behind her! After much hugging they were about to make there way to the train when she ordered her brother to “see to my trunk”. When he refused to do she let down her parasol carefully folding it and then proceeded to beat his backside calling him “a common street urchin” my, she had a lot to learn! Earlier photos show her wearing a sailor’s outfit with an abundance of hair caught and tied back with a ribbon. Her face looks surly as if she is wishing the photographer to “Get on with it” A later photo, when she was aged about twenty shows a really beautiful young woman in a lace blouse and pearls, the hair now worn in a much softer fashion with wide eyes looking out on to the world. Spoiled, petulant and probably feeling resentful, she found it hard, adjusting to life in the tenement slums and felt it was O.K. to just sit about all day eating grapes! When her parents (who were very poor) asked to borrow money from her bank book she screamed blue murder according to mum but, eventually let them have it. Later, she would go to work in Jacob’s biscuit factory alongside my mum. I do not know how, or where she met her future husband John but mum always maintained she should never have got married. Apparently, she threw three engagement rings back at the poor man before finally agreeing to marry him! She never wanted to go out preferring to stay at home reading while she eat her beloved grapes!
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Auntie Bridget was my mother’s younger sister. She was married to John, a small slight man with (as they say) a heart as big as a house. To look at John, one would think of him as a very “ordinary” simple man who had done nothing much with his life, one who kept his head down, a man of habits. Once, while visiting them I had occasion to go to a drawer looking for something and was amazed to find a whole bunch of war medals! I found out they belonged to Uncle John, when I asked him how he had won them he replied, “I got them for cleaning out the latrines during the bombing” so, modest with it! I never did learn how he had won the medals. This insignificant little man was not all he appeared to be. I later learned from my own father, Uncle John had taken part in most of the major campaigns of world war two!! He adored Auntie Bridget; they just had each other, never having had children of their own. Perhaps that was just as well, she did not have a maternal streak and could not stand crying babies or the washing and feeding involved in a child’s rearing! In her own way, she more than made up for this short coming by lavishing love and practical help on us, her sister’s children. Now, a short, dumpy woman, she always wore a raincoat, beret, flat “sensible shoes” and was never seen without her Rexene shopping bag. She adored my mother and saw nothing wrong in leaving her own flat (and John) every morning, not returning home until around seven in the evening. She would arrive about ten o’clock every morning with her and John’s washing remarking to my mother as she handed it over to her “Our little lot is not going to make much difference to the pile you already do” She would depart our house every evening with her small pile of freshly laundered and ironed bundle of clothes. My flustered mum would ask “What about that poor mans (John’s) dinner and back would come the reply, “Sure haven’t I left everything ready, he can see to himself” John truly did not mind, if she was happy, he was happy. Yet, for all her eccentricities, she was a most generous soul, never arriving empty handed. From her trademark bag would be brought forth all sorts of goodies my own mum could not afford. Great blocks of cheese, a whole Victoria sponge cake, biscuits for us children and even new short white socks for the girls and grey knee length ones for the boys. The journey from her house to ours should have taken fifteen minutes but she never arrived on time! She stopped along the way to gossip to every woman she knew having all the time in the world even if they didn’t!
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A firm believer in “Children should be seen and not heard” and, most importantly “Little pigs have big ears” she would go mad if mum discussed anything in front of us children. To get around this problem, she devised her own “secret” code and almost drove mum to distraction with it! Having arrived and divested herself of coat, hat, and shopping bag she would settle herself in by the side of the fireplace and commence the morning’s gossip.
Auntie B “You would never guess who I bumped into on the way here?”
Mum: Who?”
Auntie B: Mrs P, you know who I mean, Mrs P who is married to J.P
Mum: I don’t know who you mean ( trying to get on with her housework! )
Auntie B “Of course you do! Their daughter S married Mrs G’s son T.
Mum (tentatively) Er, do you mean Sheila?
A red faced Auntie B looking around to make sure we little pigs had not caught an actual name!
Auntie B, NO, NOT HER, I mean the one that had that big operation, shiftly looking around before making a large cutting action across her tummy. “You must know the one I mean, she ran off with W.Ms husband.
And thus the conversation continued in this vein, poor mum getting more confused while Auntie Bridget got madder. She wanted to know everyone else’s business but was almost paranoid about anyone knowing hers! For instance, she would invite us to come and see her as she had some lovely fruit for us. We were under strict instructions “And don’t bring any of your lackeys (little friends) with you, I don’t want them knowing my business” We would arrive eagerly at her door, our mouths already watering at the thought of the delicious fruit we were about to eat. She would hand us a pot of jam, and large spoon informing us “There are loads of strawberries in that “And this, after climbing about twenty flights of stairs to reach her top flat, my brother never failing to remark “We shall get a nose bleed by the time we reach the top” LOL To this day I am convinced the comedian Les Dawson based his character on my Auntie Bridget!! When she was really angry, she would tug at the tops of her corsets as her face became redder by the minute! When I was younger and had done something wrong my mother would shake her head and remark” Ah, Bridget, the devils in you, your just like you’re Auntie Bridget” I would go mad, stamping my feet telling all and sundry “I don’t want to be like Auntie Bridget!” The thought of inviting any future nephews or nieces to the house for fruit and then offering them a pot of jam to fish for the fruit lay heavily on these young shoulders! During the war years, when John was away for many years mum would send a couple of us kids home with her to keep her company as she was so lonely on her own. On one particular day, she had gone on ahead while it was arranged my older brother and I would follow her. It was her birthday and we did not even have the price of a card to send her, despite her weird ways we truly loved her even though she caused us no end of embarrassment when we were older!
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My brother and I walked down Parnell St and then turned onto Parnell Square and up
past the Rotunda gardens and there, in all its glory was the answer to our dilemma! We had indeed stumbled across Wordsworth’s “host of golden daffodils” Beyond the tall railings of the garden lay a carpet of yellow as far as the eye could see and we reasoned between us, who was going to miss a few daffodils? “As you’re the smallest, I’ll “whooshe ” you up over the railings and keep nix while you grab a bunch” suggested my bold hero! He stood on the short wall that supported the tall railings and reaching down grabbed his short overweight younger sister up with one hand. Now came the hard part! He sweated as he heaved and pushed until I was able to reach and grab the spike on top. Even at this young age, modesty prevailed; I was not prepared to throw my leg over the railings until I had at least tucked my dress into the legs of my knickers, no easy task when almost at the top! I managed it; at last I was on the other side. Like a child in a sweet shop I ran amongst the flowers gathering armfuls and then discarding them when I saw bigger and better ones. Should I steal all daffodils or tulips? Maybe a mixture of both? I decided on all daffodils imagining the delight on Auntie Bridget’s face as she placed them on her room alter which must have contained about twenty statues of various saints, some I have never even heard of. Who was St Roc, depicted by a tall man with a beard, his robe raised to knee height as a large dog licked the blood running from a deep wound in his knee? I never did find out! ( answers on a post card please!) Back to our little adventure. By now, my arms were overflowing with flowers and I casually made my way back to the spot in the railings where my big brother awaited me. I paled as I heard a voice shout out, “Here’s the keeper” lending wings to my heels equivalent to that of a starting pistol at a big race! With my brothers voice urging me to “Run, run faster” I dropped the precious flowers as I panted and raced with pounding heart towards my goal, the railings. Reaching them, I scrambled on to the wall and with my brothers helping hands just about managed to reach the top before disaster struck! No time for modesty on this trip and on reaching the top and endeavouring to throw my leg over the hem of my dress got caught. I was flung outwards and only prevented from hitting the ground by my leg becoming embedded on the top spike, my now dragging weight causing the wound to get bigger and bigger. Seeing what was happening, my brother climbed up and tried to support me until help came along. After what seemed like hours and intense pain a man did come along, strangely, one from my own street, a Mr Ross.
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I was taken to Temple St. children’s hospital and had ten stitches inserted in my leg without any sort of anaesthetic or freezing, the doctor promising me after each stitch, “this is the last one” To this day I carry that scar and when my children were younger and asked how it happened, with fingers crossed behind my back I would tell them” I got shot while jumping from a plane when I was a secret agent” ( This backfired when they told thier teacher and all their school friends their mum was a "secret agent!" Mum always did say I had a vivid imagination! When we were older and, on the rare occasion were allowed to bring a boyfriend home we would send up Hail Mary’s by the score, praying Aunty Bridget would have left our house before we got there with our new “fella” No such luck, no sooner were we in the door than the great inquisition would begin! “What’s your name young fellow, do I know you, where do you live and what’s your father’s name “Where do you work? Are you on good wages there? So it went on and on, while we stood there mortified! We girls swore this was the reason some of our dates never asked us out again! I guess in her own way she was making sure the lad was a decent sort and good enough for her nieces!
Years later she would lose John but still came to mums every day. When mum decided to move to England where most of her family now lived she was so lost! My sister who still lived in Dublin was an absolute star looking after her and seeing to her needs. When my sister reported she was starting to neglect herself mum took the bull by the horns and went over to Dublin to collect her and bring her back to live with her and dad. Their last few years together were happy ones, they would sit reminiscing about the old days, mum laughingly reminding her of the day she arrived back in Ireland in her fancy lace attire and calling he brother “ a street urchin” The one brother ( Paddy, of the dead arose and appeared to Paddy ) and two sisters would all pass away in the same year. I was glad it happened this way, they all shared a rare and deep love for each other, the chain had completely snapped rather than just leaving weakened links.
P.S. While I am proud to carry the name of my mother’s sister Bridget and would hope to have her generosity of heart I am thankful I have (to date) never acquired her eccentric ways! Admittedly, I do get a niggling little worry when I think there is time yet, as I have been known to do the odd outlandish thing for a woman of my years!
How could I resist doing an imitation of Gene Kelly on a very rainy day in the city to the delight of my grandchildren? I had the rain, pavement and fancy umbrella, what more could I have asked for! What elderly person doesn’t want to run along railings with a stick listening to the rat tat tat associated with childhood? I am reminded of an advert many years ago on Radio Eireann when we were informed by a rich melodious voice, “If you feel like singing, do sing an Irish song” So, if you do get the feel,or get the urge to do something silly, outlandish or ridiculous, why not? you’re a long time dead! Bridget
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I almost forgot to mention the time Auntie Bridget arrived and sat down ready for her morning’s gossip. After a time mum asked, “Can you hear a baby crying?” Auntie, went red and shifting uncomfortably in her chair replied, Er, No, I don’t hear anything. The crying persisted and mum went out in to the hall to see where it was coming from. She found a strange pram with a distressed and crying baby, one she did not recognize. Assuming a mother visiting our neighbour in the top flat had left it there she was just about to shout up the stairs to tell the mother the baby was crying when Auntie said “Er, that’s my baby” YOUR BABY shouted my now flabbergasted mum” She (Auntie Bridget )went on to explain she had got talking to a lady who fostered out children and on learning Auntie Bridget was childless, convinced her she was an ideal candidate for motherhood!! In those far off days, there was no restrictions, background checks as, thankfully there are today)“I don’t know what to do with it, what do I know about babies she inquired of my mortified mother! “ I thought you might like to keep it”
My angry mum informed her she could hardly feed the seven she had and insisted she return the baby, which she did after a lot of trouble. LOL
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Dublin recollections. The Gymslip”
Our family of girls attended a Presentation Convent national school in the heart of Dublin. Our four brothers also went there to a tiny infant boy’s school just off the girl’s school yard. I think they left just after making their First Holy Communion and went on to the “big boy’s school” in an adjoining street. This school had girl boarders, mostly the daughters of wealthy farmers. These girls wore navy gymslips, white shirts and (I think)a navy and blue tie. The thing that impressed me most about them was the fact they carried a navy cotton drawstring bag! Before they entered class, they would open the bag, remove a pair of black plimsoll shoes and changed into these before putting the heavy black outdoor shoes into the bag. When they left the class, this procedure would be reversed. Looking back I often wonder why I was so impressed by this simple exercise! We of course never wore uniforms for as many as eight from one family could be attending the school, so this was out of the question. Many of the lads wore oversized trousers with patches and held up with braces.
About 200 yards from our street was an area called Cole's Lane. It was a warren of narrow lanes just off the famous Moore Street. It had, what would be called today “lockups” with stalls to the front holding mountains of second hand clothes and shoes.
What a blessing this place was to the poor people who lived in the surrounding area, many of them picking up clothing for the children as well as work shirts and boots for the husbands. If one could not find what they wanted here there was always The Daisy Market next to the fruit market over towards George's Hill. Mum returned from shopping in Moore Street one Saturday and calling me into our tiny kitchen said, “I have a surprise for you” Delving deeply into her shopping bag she withdrew a navy blue serge gymslip. I shall always recall this as one of the happiest moments of my life! This little girl was oh, so excited, would I be mistaken for one of the wealthy boarders? Would girls who did not know me think my Da was a wealthy farmer? The possibilities were endless and all down to a simple gymslip, such childish dreams! I could not wait to go to school, even without the standard white shirt (I wore a white blouse) and (wait for it) white plimsolls! In my happiness I was prepared to let go my dream of having a navy drawstring bag. Of course my sisters kicked up a fuss; they all wanted a proper gymslip. Mum explained the shop “only had the one,” in retrospect; it was probably all she could afford. In the event, we all got to wear it, as one outgrew it the next one down got it! Now, in the Autumn of our years as we, the sisters reminisce and talk about those far off days the youngest girl and the last one to wear the famous gymslip will laughingly remark “ Don’t call me second hand Rose, just call me third, forth and fifth Rose!
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My very best friend N—a also lived in our street, we had started at the “little” school on the same day and would remain firm friends until the day we finally left to go out and face the great big world. N---a was a truly beautiful little girl with deep auburn thick hair and big brown eyes. She must have been about seven years old at this time as our communion photograph shows her to have two front teeth missing while I look like a female version of Billy Bunter! She was one of the two little companions who had shared with me the legacy of Nana’s beaded black cloak (earlier recollection) Her mother was also a striking woman who wore lipstick. As a child, I would remonstrate with mum asking “Why can’t you wear lipstick and have beautiful red lips like N---a’s mummy?” and back would come the reply “After seeing to you lot I hardly have time to wash my face, never mind lipstick” LOL
As was usual, N----a called for me one morning and she was wearing a BRAND NEW red sailors dress decorated with white trim and on her feet, black patent shoes with a silver buckle. We knew them as hornpipe shoes. I managed to say, “Oh N---a, you look gorgeous” but beneath the smile I was oh! so jealous! I had longed for just such a dress but knew I did not have a hope of getting one. This happened before the event of the above mentioned gymslip. Suppressing my jealously, we walked arm in arm to school as we had done since infants class. After the many Ohs and Ahs of our classmates on catching sight of N--as dress I soon got over it and settled into class. Two mornings later, N---a again arrived to pick me up for school but dear God, this was more than I could bear, she was now wearing a navy version of the sailors dress which had caused the green eyed monster to erupt in this young breast!! Here she was, my best friend with not one, but two versions of the dress I longed for. Once again I was forced into a great big false smile while I thought my heart would surely break! I was not very talkative as we made our way to school fearing if I opened my mouth I would surely cry. My thoughts were all over the place, I wondered was this The Blessed Virgins way of punishing me because I had taken a sly puff of uncle John’s cigarette when he wasn’t looking? Was Jesus angry with me because I had gone to the pork butchers in Capel Street for the sausages when mammy had told me to go to Steins in Parnell Street? I reasoned when I went to confession the slate would be wiped clean after I had confessed these terrible “crimes” and then I would become a good little girl and not be jealous of my best friends clothes!! We carried on to school and, as usual were the first ones there. We always sat on the school steps waiting for the bell to ring for opening. Even after all these years I am so ashamed at what happened next, but my recollections must include “warts and all” The day was overcast with seagulls screeching up above us. We both looked up, drawn by the noise of the gulls and just at that moment one of them decided to do what comes naturally!! N—as whole head was covered with the mess as was THE DRESS while I, on the other hand was not soiled by a drop. For one fleeting moment I wanted to laugh out loud but compassion soon edged the green eyed monster to one side and I was truly upset for her. The mess was far too much for us to tackle so I suggested she go home and get cleaned up while I explained to Sister Paul what had happened. I have to be honest and admit to getting a fit of the giggles all day when I thought about it! She returned to school with her beautiful hair washed and I was glad to see she was not wearing the red or navy sailors dress. We would lose touch after leaving school but I would never fail to send her a Christmas card and still do.
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For years I promised myself I would return “home” to my beloved Dublin and catch up with my childhood friends but “The best laid plans of mice and men” springs to mind here. What with one thing and another, my growing family and aged parents the trip never materialized. The time had arrived, I really was returning home and my now grown up daughter asked if she could come with me. I wrote to N---a and made arrangements to meet her on a certain day outside the G.P.O (where else?) It was forty years since we had last met and my daughter asked “But how will you recognize her mum after all these years” “ I would know her anywhere I replied, she has the most glorious auburn hair, big brown eyes and is small and dainty” And so, we reached the G.P.O. A small white haired well rounded woman came rushing towards us, arms outstretched and tears running from her eyes! My dear friend N…a. Strange, how we hold on to memories and images from our distant past forgetting old father time never stops working. I should add N----a is not the only one who has changed yet, despite our Grey hair and wrinkles we managed to bridge the years and had a wonderful time having lunch in a restaurant where many years ago, as little girls, we would peek in at this “Posh “place and promise “when we are big girls and very rich we will go here for our dinner” Of course I had a confession to make to dear N---a, should I get it over with before or after lunch?? “Er, N---a, do you remember having two lovely sailors dresses, a navy and a red one?” And so, I regaled her with details of the visit from the green eyed monster who had entered my young life! We laughed so much we were almost thrown out of the restaurant!! Bridget
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Thank you Bridget. I am really enjoying your stories.... they would all make up a great book .......
Keep them coming.... kind regards, Karen
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Thank's Karen. I can't tell you what a thrill it is for me that people are enjoying my wee stories. It makes me feel really humble. Bridget
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Bridget, I'm going to print your stories out and give them to my mum ... she grew up in Dublin City and I remember her talking about 'bang bang' !!!! I think she really will enjoy the read........ ....you have a lot of talent.... take care, Karen
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More Recollections… Unwanted Visitors!!
(The present)
Two days ago my lovely next door neighbour knocked on our kitchen door inquiring if my husband could do her a favour, as hers (husband) was out. She casually explained she had gone into her bedroom, and there, sitting on her bedside clock was a mouse! On hearing this I paled and swiftly dashed to close my kitchen door, “just in case it would make its way into our place” How come I had not heard her screams from next door on making this discovery? Had it been me, they would have heard me screaming in the next town while my head was down the toilet bowl being violently sick! “Don’t tell me you’re frightened of a little mouse? They are lovely furry little things. Ah, I thought to myself, if only you knew!!!
Sometime in the 1940s
Still struggling into our coats, my older sister and I dashed from the Stella Maris youth club. We turned left into Granby Row and despite our haste we still stopped to genuflect and make the sign of the cross as we passed Matt Talbot’s small shrine. another short cut through Dominic St churchyard, down Domnic St and on to Parnell Street. We reached the pub just before “Benny’s chip shop and at this point my sister always stopped, making several leaps into the air thus enabling her to see the clock on the pub wall beyond the half frosted windows. Nana always pointed this pub out to us telling us it was where the “big fellow” Michael Collins hid from those fellows up at the Castle but, sure didn’t the big fella always give them a queer run-around!!
“Oh, God, it’s after 10 o clock, Da will kill us” cried my sister, “it’s your fault, you should have come when I asked you to instead of waiting for that last dance”
“Ah sure we’ll tell him the sister insisted on saying another rosary and that’s what delayed us” I replied.
“You told him that when we were late home two weeks ago, we can’t tell him that one again”
The previous week I had seen a great auld gangster picture at the “Maro” with plenty of shooting as the baddies held up a bank.
Er, what if we tell him two fellas tried to “hold up” Benny’s chippy and we tried to stop them?”
Will you go way out of that! It’s true what me Ma says about you Bridget! You have a vivid imagination and the devils in you!”
And so we rushed on home, hearts in our mouths as I tried to conjure up yet another valid and acceptable excuse for our lateness!. I had already used the one about the poor woman getting beat up by her husband, and two fellas outside a pub killing each other! To which he had asked” And what has that got to do with you?” When Dad said “be back home by Ten, he meant Ten and not a moment later!
On reaching home, we removed our shoes and crept silently into the open hall and then on into the front room, (known as the parlour). The doors were never locked in our street as no one had anything worth stealing. The smell of the cooking fish and chips as we had passed the chippy had started the hunger pangs rolling even though we had been given a mug of hot coco and a bun at the youth club. We both looked up to the ceiling at the large basket hanging from the pulley suspended there. There was a reason for this.
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Every morning when mum arrived back from 6 O'Clock Mass at Domnic St Church she would find on opening the cupboards or going to the old kitchen dresser the rats had beaten her to it! Porridge oats, bread and most foodstuffs would contain rat droppings and everything would have to be thrown out, something we could ill afford to do. Rat traps were laid and while a few were caught and disposed of this army of vermin were no fools, they not only outnumbered us but out maneuvered us to boot! I was always reminded of a James Cagney picture I had seen at “The Plaza” where James, banging his chest shouted “Come on coppers, come and get me” I was convinced our very own supply of rats were squealing the same thing! I could just imagine them standing up on hind legs, banging their underbellies as they squealed “ Come on humans, come and get us, just try it” Da was not going to be beaten and came up with the bright idea of attaching a pulley to the ceiling, threading a rope through it and then a large basket to the other end. Every evening our foodstuffs would be placed in the basket whence it would be hauled up to the ceiling and thus, out of reach of our unwanted visitors. I should mention Da was certainly no D.I.Y expert! While we all agreed it was a fair idea and, probably the only solution we shuddered as he prepared to carry out the job himself! I even caught our younger siblings rolling their eyes to the heavens as if to say, “Oh! No, here we go again!” On went the overalls with an assortment of tools, (enough to build a house) stuck out of the back pocket. Under mum’s beady eye and strict instruction not to make a mess he stood on our best (now well covered) polished table, (courtesy of Nana after she passed away). In all fairness, he was dealing with plaster that had lain untouched for over a hundred years, (apart from the coats of wallop when we decorated) Needless to say, he almost brought the whole ceiling down but still managed to attach the pulley to the now exposed rafters! A handy man from the bottom of the street had to be called in to make good the damage. This then was the basket my sister and I gazed up at on that particular night. We both wanted a nice buttered slice of Boland’s turnover and while this was not forbidden we knew the dreadful creaking noise of the pulley being lowered would bring dad down the stairs thus finding out about our late arrival home. We looked at each other and shrugging our shoulders decided to forsake the longed for slice of turnover and make our way silently up the stairs. And then we saw IT, we both saw IT together, the biggest, fattest, rat hunched in the corner behind the door we had just entered. Its tail looked as long and thick as the leather whip we had used for our spinning tops. The name of a famous high jumper slips this old mind just now but I have no doubt our one great leap on to Nana’s polished table would have broken all records to date!! Naturally our screams brought dad flying down the stairs to find out what was wrong. All we could do was point as we clutched each other atop the table. Da grabbed the nearest thing to hand, the sweeping brush and went into battle raising and bringing down the brush as the rat jumped in all directions. It took time but, eventually he managed to kill it. That was the start of yet another problem. While the gory innards could be washed from the woodwork alas, the blood splattered wallpaper could not be saved. Yet, the services of the streets handyman were called on again; (when we got the money) The younger children were delighted. In those far off days wallpaper rolls came with a white strip on both sides. These sides had to be trimmed off before the paper could be pasted to the walls. The children were given a whole penny for each roll they trimmed, the decorator not wanting to carry out this laborious job himself! Of course I had seen rats at a distance (shudders) and even lay awake at night listening to the scratching and scurrying above and below the floorboards. I would pull the paper-thin blankets over my head terrified in case I would wake to find one entangled in my long hair.
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The blankets were supplemented by a large heavy army greatcoat, a “must” for all the families in our street! I think I must have been about ten years old before I realized the strange birthmark (The Queens Own Regiment) embedded on my bottom was an indentation from the brass buttons on the coat. LOL. They could have at least cut them off!! I would lie awake trembling and thinking, what if a rat gets into the pocket or sleeve of the coat. It did not help matters that mum had told us how, many years ago when she was breast feeding her new baby, she had dozed off and awoken to find a huge rat on the pillow beside her! Thus my phobia was born, my fear of rats/mice. Not only would it affect me but all the girls in our family. My own dear children would also become victims of this legacy. No!, NO, you can’t have a pet mouse or rat, you can have any other pet, a dog, cat, goldfish, and (in desperation) one day, even a bl---y elephant. LOL Pictures of the vermin were not allowed, even little furry toys, anything that depicted a rat or mouse was forbidden. When schooldays arrived I would get into a panic when it was their turn to bring home the school pet hamster. I could not bear to have it in my home it’s scratching and noise reminding and bringing home my greatest fear. I would even bribe, and pay another child to take my children’s turn. (Hangs head in shame) In time they came to understand my fear and would call out, “Mum, don’t come into the room, there’s a rat on the T.V. or, you can come in now mum, it’s gone off screen”
I wondered, would my lovely neighbour still think of them as harmless furry little things if she had lived in such close proximity with the “lovely furry little things" as we had?
I cherish and hold dear everything about my street and its people and feel proud I was a part of our little community, alas! I can’t say the same about the rats. Bridget .
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Morning prayers were over and we children had made our way back to our respective class rooms ready to begin yet, another day at school. I just can’t remember how old I was. We stood up from our desks as Sister Mary B----p entered the room and resumed sitting only when we were given the nod to do so. She carried a large stack of exercise books which she then placed on the table in front of her. Placing her two forefingers to the side of her face, (the only part of her showing) she pushed the white wimple back from where it was biting into her skin. She was a very tall, heavy set woman dressed from head to toe in the black habit of the Presentation Sisters, the heavy skirts reaching down to her ankles just allowing a glimpse of the thick black stockings and heavy black shoes peeking from beneath its folds. Even from my desk at the back of the class I recognized my own exercise book on top of the pile. I loved to get a new book and would take great care lovingly covering its outer cover with nice brown paper before carefully writing my name on it. I would flick through the empty book, promising myself never to get an ink blot or finger mark on its virgin pages. I felt really proud of this particular book, feeling I had really excelled myself. In this instance, not for me any old common or garden brown paper, oh no!. After our room was decorated how delighted I was to find there was some wallpaper left over, enough to cover mine and my sisters school books. And there, atop the teachers table, the great big cabbage roses of the wall paper shone out (to me) like the beam of a lighthouse at sea. In those far off days we would be given an English exercise to do and be expected to fulfill the required four or five hundred words. A title such as “I am a plane” I am a motor car” or such like would be given and we would be expected to carry on from there. How I loved doing these, having a vivid imagination I never had any trouble finding things to write about. I would rush home from school and go straight to Nana’s room where I would sit at her polished round table and in the glow of the gas light I would put my head down and as in the case of “I am a plane” enter a world of metal, rivets, screws and workforces. Not for me, “I am a plane, I fly in the sky and carry passengers all over the world” Oh no, that was too easy! My particular plane had to be “born” from scratch its progress accounted for from start to finish! I would describe the new plush seats, its interior, and yes, even down to the uniforms of the pilot and air hostesses. Of course in the end, my plane would eventually crash but not before it had given great service as a passenger plane and, eventually a war plane after a huge conversion! I could not write the words down fast enough, the ides tumbling from my child’s mind as fast as water from a tap!
Sister Mary Bi---p raised her eyes from the table carefully studying each face before finally coming to rest on mine.
“Bridget, come to the top of the class.” I felt my face go red, I hated being brought to the front of the class feeling the eyes of my school friends bore into my back as I reluctantly made my way there. I reached her table just as she reached out and removed my book from the top of the pile.
“Is this your book?”
“Yes Sister, it is”
(I wondered was I in trouble on account of my beautiful wallpaper covering.
“How long did it take you to write this exercise?”
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“Err, I don’t really know, I went home but my brothers were sat at our kitchen table doing their homework so I went upstairs to Nana’s rooms to do mine. Nana gave me some hot cocoa and after that I started writing and did not stop until I had finished my exercise”
“Pray tell me who helped you with your homework?”
“Why, nobody helped me Sister, I did it by myself”
“Don’t lie to me, I want the truth”
“I am telling the truth”
“If nobody helped you then where did you copy it from?”
“I did not copy it from anyone, I did it by myself, just ask my Nana”
“Why did you exceed the five hundred words I set?”
“Er, I’m not sure what you mean Sister”
I mean why did you go over five hundred words?”
“Sister, I just could not fit in all I wanted to write in five hundred words”
(In a raised voice) “I want the truth”
At this point and almost in tears I proceeded to do what every Dublin child did when they were trying to convince someone they were telling the truth. Wetting my forefinger against my tongue I placed the finger against my “Adams apple” and making the sign of the cross said
“I swear to God, I am telling the truth”
“Not only lying but taking the Lords name in vain”
Opening the table drawer she removed the “slapper” which was almost identical to the butter pats the dairies used to pat butter into shape.
“Hold out your hand”
I held out my right hand, palm upwards and winced as the “slapper” came down heavily three times!
“Now the other one”
Holding out my left hand I received another “three of the best” By now, the tears I had tried to suppress came rolling down my cheeks and I was ordered back to my desk. I walked slowly back, a hand under each armpit trying to ease the pain in my stinging palms.
Mammy was ironing, as usual when I arrived home from school.
“Oh mammy I got “killed” (childish Dublin expression) today in school by Sister Mary Bi—op.
“And what did you get “killed” for?”
“For nothing mammy, I did nothing”
“Will you go on out of that, you must have done something, the good sisters don’t slap you for nothing?”
I went up to Nana’s room but got no sympathy there either
“You must have done something wrong, were you a bold (naughty )girl?”
Our family were sent to school clean and tidy every day, me with two long plaits pulled back so tightly it resulted in an instant facelift LOL! Our attendance was excellent (apart form sickness) in all, we were well behaved knowing we would have Da to answer to if it were otherwise! Time after time it was impressed upon us how important it was to learn the Irish language. “You will never get a job in any government department or the Post Office unless you learn the Irish language” we were constantly told. On passing the exam for the Irish language one was presented with a gold coloured lapel pin in the shape of a ring. It was called a “Fainne” Alas, the nearest I ever got to this was my own wedding ring. No matter how hard I tried I simply could not grasp the Irish language and likewise, arithmetic. I was doing all right until I got to decimal points and again, could not grasp it. . History, geography and English I loved, that was, until the above related incident regarding my exercise.
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I lost all confidence, frightened to submit work in case I was accused of cheating or copying from books. Even at that young age, I had no illusions about getting a grand job in some government department or the post office; I just was not clever enough.
Because of one stupid incident, my greatest passion, English was snatched away from me. Never again would I be able to open my book and lose myself in a world of my own making with the aid of my trusty pen and bottle of ink. We were short of material things because of circumstances. Had not my late brother, Michael lost his dream to go on to further education because the family could not afford the books and uniform? While his dream had been snatched away I knew that I would never have to face such a dilema, his had been a brilliant mindI. I was very happy in my own way, (apart from Irish and maths) knowing I could take myself off to Nanas room and lose myself in a book or writing. And so,I regressed, rather than progressed and lost a lot of tuition along the way, afraid to stand up in class or even put my hand up to answer questions I knew the answers to. I would sadly have yet another “run-in” with Sister Mary Bi---p. I was in the classroom of Miss M when she ran out of chalk for the blackboard. She picked on me to go to the next door classroom and get some chalk from the teacher there. I went and politely knocked on the door until a voice bid me, “come in” On entering, to my horror I found the teacher was Sister M.B. I approached her and said” Please Sister, can Miss M have some” and that was as far as I got! She lifted her hand striking me so hard across the face I ended up on the other side of the room! “You will never approach me without first saying “Excuse me” I was mortified this had happened in front of a classroom full of younger pupils! Even now, in old age these two incidents are embedded in my mind as plain as the handprint she left on my face. I am at pains here to impress upon anyone reading this that all the Sisters did not have the cruel streak possessed by Sister M.B. Who knows what caused her to be like this? Did she have worries and problems we knew nothing about? In what would be my last year I would be lucky to have the most wonderful Sister Paul as my teacher. This lady dedicated her life to teaching the children from the slums of North Dublin, her patience, tenacity and ongoing enthusiasm lighting up the whole school. She must have seen some little spark in me, encouraging me no end especially in English, but by then, it was too late. I would leave school just before my 14th birthday and start work as a machinist in a factory where they made raincoats. I would never lose touch with her writing and telling her of my marriage and children and all the events happening in my life. I managed to visit her at the retirement home for nuns on one of my rare visits home. How sad I was to see she was now badly crippled with arthritis and could only shuffle along with the help of a walking frame. Some years later, on yet another visit I wrote and told her I would be again visiting her on the twelfth of May. She passed away on the tenth of that month. She was then ninety years of age.
Making my way to the retirement home, I was directed to the small cemetery where the nuns were buried. I stood looking down at the still new mound of earth before placing the flowers on top. As I stood there thinking of this gentle soul who had changed the lives of so many of the pupils who had passed through her hands over the years I whispered a prayer of thanks. How grateful I was that the strands of her life had interwoven with mine, a child of the tenements, even for a short time. Bridget
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Well done Bridget,
wonderful stories.... I love each and every one... have felt the slapper too... also got a blackboard eraser thrown at me... how did they get away with it...
Like you I had a couple of wonderful and dedicated nuns that saw something in me that obviously was hiding lol...
keep the stories coming..
Best wishes
Mo
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Thank's Mo, Whilst not a clever pupil, I was an obedient and well behaved one! Perhaps the story of Sister M.B. was a blessing in disguise, I can now blame her for my poor grammer and spelling. LOL Bridget
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To emphasis the point, I folded my hands under my arms and again shook my head as I informed my older sister yet again,
“No, I won’t do it” it’s a stupid idea”
“Why not? If I am willing to try it then it’s no skin off your nose”
“Oh yeah! No skin off my nose? Have you considered what a right auld eejit I am going to look like, walking through town with a pair of crutches stuck under my arm and me with not a thing wrong with me?”
“That’s all right then, forget I even asked,” and then, casually, just as an after thought.
“I’ll remember that the next time you want to borrow one of my dresses to go to a dance”
That soon put a stop to my gallop and a mental image of me; turning up to a dance in jeans, gaudy shirt and “flatties” somehow did not seem to “fit the bill!” This was out and out blackmail!
“Oh all right then, I’ll do it” I told her reluctantly but only if you’ll let me wear your new yellow dress next Saturday night. I had no intentions of giving in that easily!
Like all sisters, we had our petty quarrels, fighting over anything from underwear (THEY ARE My knickers!) to whose turn it was to black-lead the old gas cooker. I was going through my tomboy stage, and having at last obtained a second-hand bicycle I was in seventh heaven spending every spare moment out cycling with my friends. Most of what I was given back from my wages went on repairs to this bicycle and my beloved dancing! My sister did not dance and never did learn to ride a bike. Her hobbies were going to the pictures and live shows and her passion was clothes! She really did have some lovely dresses and was most generous in sharing them with me, indeed, were it not for her generosity; I could not have gone to a dance. I was happy slogging around, much to mum’s horror in jeans and brightly coloured “Hawaiian” type shirts, a gift from a pen-friend in America. A fall had left my sister with a badly broken leg and she was now on crutches. She was going on a train journey to visit an old school friend and in her words “Would not be seen dead on these crutches” I was therefore roped in to accompany her to the station, see her onto the train and take the “offending” crutches back home. How she was going to manage on the other end was anyone’s guess! A cold wet dark afternoon saw me complete my (reluctant) good deed as promised, even waiting for the guard to blow his whistle before turning away to make my way home. I made my way to the bus stop which was on a bend in the road. I was the only one there and, to my chagrin, soon realized I must have missed the half hourly bus. Tired and bored, I threaded my arms through the crutches casually leaning on them for support as I watched other people join the queue. The bus swung around the corner taking me by surprise and while I was still trying to detangle myself from the crutches the people from the back of the queue were already on board! Even above the noise of the traffic I could hear the broad Dublin accent of the conductor as he bellowed out, “In the name of the Lord Jaysus, what sort of animals are ya that you would almost knock a poor invalid down to get on the bus, shame on yous” Strange, I thought, I was first here and had not noticed a crippled person join the queue! The conductor addressed a male passenger, “Give us a hand mate” In the blink of an eye my crutches were removed and two pairs of strong arms gently lifted and placed me on the long seat near to the back of the bus, no mean feat I can tell you! I had always considered myself a “bonny girl” but if truth be known I looked as though I had swallowed Robbie Coltrane!
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(Conducting a casual affair with the truth) My several attempts to explain the situation were overridden by the loud voice of the conductor still berating the now guilty and ashamed passengers. One or two even had the grace to turn around and mouth the word “sorry” in my direction! By now, I had died a thousand deaths! Dear God I thought to myself, what am I to do? The situation had developed beyond my control; it was out of my hands! There was nothing for it but to carry on with the charade that had been forced upon me. Think! Think! I sucked in my very plump cheeks, trying to appear all pale and wan, not easy while trying to answer the concerns (All right love?) of the solicitous friendly conductor! While he is away upstairs collecting the fares I casually sort of rearrange my legs to make them appear weak and badly shaped. I did not have to work to hard on the latter, LOL By now my poor jaws were aching from (still) trying to suck in my cheeks. Somehow my embarrassment was watered down as I tried to justify my actions, “Well, it’s not my fault, I did not say I was an invalid, they assumed it so how can I take the blame for that? Cockiness and arrogance had also edged there way into the situation and my mind was now racing ahead! Now, who was it told me I would make a great actress,? Er, now is that a career I should give some thought to? Had I not managed to convince a whole busload of people I was someone I was not? Yes, I was indeed worthy of an Oscar. I was reaching for the stars, Garbo had nothing on me, and to think, this was my very first performance! I soon came back to earth with a bump. Having overcome one obstacle, yet another loomed on the horizon, how was I to get off this bus? As if reading my mind, my friendly conductor assured me of his continued help when I alighted. I informed him the next stop was mine. Again the assistance of a fellow male passenger was called upon. When the bus stopped I was once more gently lifted and with great care placed safely upon the pavement. While one Sir Galahad supported me my other friendly knight retrieved my crutches from beneath the stairs and placed one beneath each arm. With my lovely helpers still watching from the platform I was stuck there wondering (a) Do I swing forth on both crutches? Or (b) right leg, right crutch forward and then the same with the left leg? I tried both and failed dismally! By now I was desperate and felt there was nothing for it but to run which I did placing both crutches under my right arm as I made my swift getaway! A quick glance back saw two open-mouthed males following my progress as though they had just witnessed a miracle! I hope I never shattered their beliefs. Of course this happened many years ago in a time when men gave up their seats to old or pregnant ladies on the bus. Yes, I did get to wear the lovely dress the following Saturday.
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Recollections and Reminiscences.
Clutching my mammy’s hand we left our home passing the five houses before reaching the pub on the corner and turning into Parnell Street. I think the pub was called Mc Coy’s but was known to everyone as “The Beamish” Secretly, and behind mammy’s back I stuck my tongue out at the building as we passed. The previous week daddy had promised mammy he would take us all out to Dollymount, a rare visit to the seaside. Mammy had the sandwiches all packed as well as an array of mismatched cups, the teapot, milk and sugar, in fact everything required to keep her large family going on their day out. On that glorious sunny day we had waited, and waited until losing patience, mammy had dispatched my brother to “The Beamish” to see what was keeping daddy. “Tell your mammy I will not be long, tell her to go on out on the bus and I will follow and catch up with you” Poor mammy collected her large brood and made her was to O’Connell St where we caught the bus out to Dollymount. What a sight we must have made with our towels, and an assortment of shopping bags with teapot and cups peeking from the tops! Alighting from the bus, we walked along the long road leading to the beach. We passed the lady who sold boiling water for making tea. Even standing yards away the heat from the fire under the very large container holding the water could be felt making our already sun kissed faces even redder. For a deposit, one could even “hire” the teapot with the water but, supplying your own loose tea, no teabags in those days!
Our first job on arriving was to collect enough kindling to make a fire ready for our tea later in the day. We children undressed, the girls young enough just to wear our knickers as we did not possess bathing costumes. How we loved splashing in and out of the water trying to outrun yet another large wave as it headed inwards toward the beach. Mammy’s cry’s of “Don’t go out too far, or hold the hands of the younger ones” went unheeded, we were too busy enjoying our rare treat out. Later, the boys would get the fire started amidst much puffing and blowing and mammy made the tea when the water finally boiled. Nothing tasted as good as those sandwiches despite the grains of sand that had somehow found there way between the thick slices! From our low vantage point on the beach her eyes would constantly turn to the upper road watching for signs of daddy’s arrival, but, daddy never came, thus my childish reason for sticking my tongue out as we passed the “Beamish” on our way to Moor Street.
We passed the small drapers shop called "Kenny's" where Nana had bought my older sister a pair of button up boots that reached half way up her legs, and I cried because she had not bought me a pair. They had lots of little hooks and eyelets and very long laces that had to be wrapped around each one before being tied in a neat bow when the top was finally reached. I knew all these little shops like the back of my hand. We passed the next street to ours, which was Jervis St. At the far end, divided by Mary Street was Jervis street hospital where we would go for attention for minor to major illnesses. Now we were passing Nellie Hoban’s small shop which only sold vegetables, this was where my mammy shopped, instructing us to “Go round to Mrs Hoban’s and fetch a stone of potatoes, “Make sure they are King Edwards and big ones” and a Savoy cabbage and feel it and make sure its got a good firm heart” On past the large grey stone house with the large flight of steps leading to it’s front door. This was known to us children as “The Old maids home” I can never recall seeing anyone go in or out of this place. When I was older I was informed it was a retirement home for “Genteel ladies of the Protestant Faith” Almost next to the home, and many years later come “Peat’s,” an electrical shop where we would get our very first television set. I was at my happiest clutching mammy’s hand and going shopping
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. I could not help noticing the gaping buttonholes on mammy’s dress. Oh God, please don’t let my mammy get too fat, if I got into a fight in the street sure wouldn’t all the young ones (little girls) be shouting “Na na na na na, your mammy has a big fat belly and then I would have to give them a slap and probably get into trouble with the nuns at school!! We were now outside of Mrs Crowley’s second hand shop, directly opposite Noyeke’s wood merchants, (in 1972 Noyeks would become the scene of a tragic fire in which eight people lost their lives. R.I.P.) I knew we would enter as mammy loved going in there. How can I now describe Mrs Crowley’s shop compared to the second hand stalls of Coles Lane with their mountains of clothes piled high in no order? Think Harrods versus Woolworth’s and there you have it! The “cream” of second hand shops! A small shop, Mrs Crowley washed and starched everything before placing them in their respective places on tables and shelves around the shop, doilies, christening robes, baby gowns and binders as well as beautiful quilts and tablecloths. “There you are, how are ya? (A Dublin greeting) she called out to mammy as we entered the shop. “ Ah sure I’m grand thanks, I just popped in to see if you had got anything nice in since I was in last time” replied mammy.
“As a matter of fact I did get something in that I thought you might be interested in and put it to one side until you came by” Bending, and reaching under the counter she straightened up and in her hand was a shawl of pale blue as delicate and intricate as a spiders web. Soft and silky with long silk fringes falling from its four sides it looked as though it would have passed through a wedding band! Mammy loved it on sight and without hesitation paid a deposit to secure it promising Mrs Crowley she would come in the following week to pay off the balance. “Oh mammy, its gorgeous, Are you going to put it on Nana’s round polished table?” I asked as we left the shop. Maybe, we’ll see she replied, a smile on her face. On we went, stopping to gaze into the window of Stanley’s dairy and cake shop, We looked in at the display of fresh cream cakes, cream buns, flaky cones, the fresh cream oozing from their centres, alongside the sugared doughnuts, crispy on the outside but mouth-watering fluffy on the inside. I never think of Stanley’s shop but am reminded of Mondays and washday. We always knew it would be a fry up from Sunday’s leftover mashed potatoes and cabbage as mammy had mountains of washing to do. On arriving home from school, we would find her in the back yard up to her elbows in soap suds as she rubbed the clothes against the scrubbing board in the old tin bath. Flushed and hot she would send one of us down to Stanley’s with a jug for a pint of buttermilk. On our return she would place it to her mouth and greedily drink until it was all gone. She maintained there was nothing like buttermilk for “cooling you off” Still we carried on walking down Parnell Street until we came to Steins pork butchers where mammy always bought her black and white pudding, half a pound of brawn for Saturday nights sandwiches and of course, a couple of pigs feet/trotters for Da. Steins was without doubt the cleanest shop I had ever been in. Its large window boasted silver trays full of an assortment of links of shiny skinned sausages, pork, and beef, thick ones and thin ones. Rings of pudding, lean or fatty black ones and the delicious fine textured white. Mammy said no one shop produced pudding or sausages like Steins and I agreed with her, of course she told me, they were made to a secret recipe! “What’s the secret recipe?” I asked. “Ah, sure if I knew that wouldn’t I be a millionaire. It has been handed down from one generation of the family to the next and when they all die out the secret will die with them”
“What’s a generation mean mammy?”
Ah, whist, (quiet) and go on into the shop”
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The four people behind the counter wore spotless white coats and after mammy collected her messages (shopping) the nice man behind the counter used his sharp knife and cutting a slice off a ring of white pudding handed it to me. I loved Sunday mornings, all week we would have porridge for breakfast but on Sunday the lovely smell of the pudding and sausages frying would have us flying down the stairs ready to tuck in. If you went to early Mass, from every house one passed would come the same lovely smell, a late Mass and ones nostrils would be assailed with the smell of cabbage and bacon bubbling away for Sunday dinner. Finally, we reached Moore Street but that’s a Recollection for another day.
(Some months late)
Returning from school we turned the corner into our street and I felt sick as we spotted our neighbour from the upstairs rooms anxiously looking this way and that until finally, she caught sight of us. Stepping even further out on to the footpath she beckoned for us to come quickly. It was like history repeating itself, had not the neighbours come to fetch us all home from school when mammy had almost died and had to go into hospital for a very long time? Then I saw the smile on her face. Surely mammy could not be sick or she would not be smiling? She bundled us all hurriedly into the hall of out tenement house and up the stairs. What was that strange smell? I would later find out it was the smell of Detol disinfectant, mum always used the cheaper Jeys Fluid for scrubbing and cleaning. Ushering us into the room we found our mammy sat up in bed in a lovely white nightdress and in her arms a blue bundle. I recognised the shawl as the one she had bought from Mrs Crowley’s second hand shop. Beckoning us to gather round and come closer she gently pulled the shawl back to reveal a little puckered up face with a head of black hair, the latest addition to our family after five years! She was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen, the tiny rosebud mouth opening just like the tiny birds I had seen in my picture books. " Oh mammy, she is gorgeous, can I hold her" asked my older sister" Our brothers did not share our enthusiam as they cried " Ah no, not another girl!" sure she wont be able to climb or play football! I was in my element, at last, I would have a pram to push with our very own baby, no more going to ask our neighbours ” please can I push your pram and baby?” For the rest of my life I would forever associate the smell of Detol with “new babies” Bridget
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hi bridget,
check out the link to dublin forums below
for story about bang bang.the link should take you to page 6 on the thread,
on page 8 there is someone who says bang bang lived at 9 mill st or maybe lane,
I'm not sure.when I read the story I thought you'd been 'moonlighting'.
keep up the good work. best wishes, anne.
http://www.dublin.ie/forums/showthread.php?t=3913&page=6
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Hi Anne, Thank's for that. What a lovely well written story about Bang Bang. I really enjoyed it. I guess you could not call yourself a Dubliner if you had not met or heard of bang bang. May his memory live forever in the hearts of all Dubliners. R.I.P. Bridget x
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Dublin Recollections. The Entrepreneurs.
While I cannot remember having “regular” pocket money, when Dad was in employment we were treated to the pictures, sweets and ice cream. I loved the rare times when dad would take us to see his brother over the other side of the city; I think he may have been better off than us because he gave all of us children two whole shillings as we were leaving! The only other time I had been given such a huge amount was on the day I made my First Holy Communion! My friends and I devised our own ways of earning pocket money. One of the most profitable ways was to “go for the messages” (run errands) for the older women of the street.
We were constantly warned by our mothers, “If Mrs. ---- sends you for a message and she offers you money you are not to take it” Having completed the errand we would rush back wondering if we were going to get anything. Out would come the purse and as the penny reward was proffered we stood with our hand going backward and forward as we uttered “Ah, no thanks, me mammy said I was not to take anything for going for a message” “Ah, sure take it, I’ll not let on to your mammy” I almost cried on the spot when one old lady returned the penny to her purse saying, Aren’t you a grand little girl doing what mammy tells you!!” Collecting empty bottles and jam jars was yet another source of income. Of course there were no plastic bottles in those days, everything was glass. If empty beer or lemonade bottles were returned to the shops or pubs the penny deposit was refunded. The lemonade bottles were returned to Miss Ts corner shop and the beer bottles to the pub directly opposite. The old Jewish gentleman in Tilly’s Lane took the jam jars. When he left us for a moment to add our small donation the mountain of glass in his back yard, we would “help” ourselves to a couple of jam jars lying in the pile waiting to be sorted. We would return later and sell them back to him!!
The price of admission to the cinema was four old pennies. Naturally our parents could not fork out the money every time we wanted to go to the pictures, so we used what little initiative we had make up that precious four pence. On Sundays, armed with a couple of empty buckets we would knock on every door in our street of tenement houses asking each family “Do you have any slops please?” They would come to their doors scraping any left-over food such as meat bones, stale bread, and cabbage leaves and potatoes peelings into our buckets. Sometimes when we knocked a voice from within would shout, “Who is it, what do you want?” “Any slops missus? We would ask? “No, I’ve already given them to the two young ones (young girls) who called earlier.” When Nana had missed out on some sheets in the sale at Lee’s drapers store in Henry Street she had remarked Oh well, “The early bird catches the worm” “What does that mean Nana,” I had asked. Her explanation was now brought home to me! Some other children had beaten us to it. On the Sundays when we were lucky enough to amass a couple of full buckets we would take them up William and Wood’s lane where Paddy K. had a yard in which he kept some pigs. He would relieve us of the slops giving us two old pennies in return, if Mrs. K dealt with us she would throw in a handful of sweets so we were always pleased to see her come towards us. Of course a child from another street would not invade our “territory” to collect slops; it was an unwritten agreement/code that children only collected in their own street. When we were a little older and allowed to go on a bus (in a group) we would find an empty sack and make our way out to Dollymount. Pairing off, we would spend hours prising winkles off the rocks until we had half a sack full. This was all we could carry because of the weight.
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On reaching home, the winkles were rinsed well before being placed in a bucket and boiled on the stove for an hour or so. They were then transferred to a white enamel basin. We would set up our stall, (a chair) by the hall door with a large sign proclaiming “Winkles, a penny a cupful, bring your own bag” Our customers, (children from the street) would come, the little girls holding out the hem of their dresses for us to toss the cupful of hot winkles into while the boys did the same with the end of their gansies (jumpers), no bags! On one particular day “business” was really bad, our regular customers bypassing us as they went towards the end of the street where the competition had her “stall” set out. While I minded our stall, my “business partner” went to investigate the cause of our lost trade. She returned spluttering and red with rage. “You’re not going to believe what that little bi--h has done! She’s not only giving the customers bags but she’s supplying them with pins as well!” Dear God! Why hadn’t we thought of that? Running indoors I grabbed my brother’s pencil and hastily changed our sign to, Winkles, half a penny a cup.
Having made up the admission price we would now debate should we go to the Maro or the Volta? If it was raining we had no option but to choose “The Maro” Every child knew when it rained you would get soaked in the Volta as the rain came pouring down from every part of its leaky roof. If we were already in there and it started raining pandemonium would break out as everyone ducked and dived from one row of seats to another seeking a dry spot It would close down when I was still a child.
Oh Happy days! Bridget x
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How I loved the summer evenings when we could play outside in the street, the boys usually running up and down with the rim of an old bicycle wheel and a stick which they used to “drive” the wheel. We girls would play ball or “piccie” using an old shoe polish tin to hop from one chalked bed (drawn on the ground) to another. I heard my mother’s voice calling, even above the squeals of delight of the playing children. I pretended not to hear her. It came again, but louder this time.
“Bridget, that’s the last time I’m calling you, if you don’t come now I’ll get Patrick to come out to you” I hurried over to our front door.
“Ah mammy, I can’t come now, we’re playing relieveo and it’s my turn to be on”
“You’ll be “on” alright if you don’t do as I tell you, now come in and collect your school bag and clean clothes, your going home with Auntie Bridget tonight”
Ah mammy, I went home with her last night, it’s not my turn, and it’s Js turn to go”
“I don’t care whose turn it is to go, I’m telling you to go and whist, (quiet) keep your voice down, she’s just inside the door and she’ll hear you”
I reluctantly entered the house to gather my things together ready to go directly to school the following morning. As stated in an earlier story we children took turns in going home with Auntie Bridget every night as mammy said she got lonely as her husband was away in the war. Auntie Bridget and Uncle John did not have children of their own. I passed my sister J on the stairs and it was obvious by the smirk on her face she had overheard the conversation regarding my going home with Auntie Bridget. I was really bulling, (annoyed) and could not resist giving her a good poke on the arm!
“Are you ready Alana “(term of endearment for a child) called Auntie as she put her coat on and threaded her arms through the handles of the ever present shopping bag. Bidding goodnight to my mother we left the house heading for her home in Hardwick Street. Oh God I thought, I hope we don’t meet any of the aul ones (old women) that she knows, sure wasn’t she bound to stop and talk to each and every one of them and it would take us ages to get to her place! I could smell the fish and chips even before we reached Benny’s chippy in Parnell Street and wondered would she stop to buy us a bag of chips? As if reading my mind she remarked,” Sure there’s no point in getting a one and one (one fish and one bag of chips) now, sure they’d be stone cold before we get home to my place, lets wait and get them from the chippy round the corner from near me, I have a lovely crusty loaf in my bag and some real butter at home, we’ll have a grand supper”
That made me feel a little better about going home with her and my game of relieveo was soon forgotten!
I linked her arm as we walked along hoping against hope she would not call into Domnic Street church to “say a few prayers” as the previous week hadn’t that cross auld Father Riley caught me and Sheila pretending to hear each others “confession” in the confessional boxes and only run us out of the church! As usual, she did call in to light a candle and say some prayers; I was in luck as we did not see hide nor hair of him! A deeply religious woman (despite her love of harmless gossip) she had a great devotion to Saint Anthony and never failed to call in and visit the shrine in Temple street almost opposite to where she lived
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How well I remember my first visit to the shrine, as if it was yesterday. We walked down the little laneway to the right of the main hospital, past the door for accidents and through a door almost opposite which led to a small hallway. The hallway led out to a lovely well laid out walled in garden filled with flowers, bushes and trees, a peaceful place where it felt safe and somehow, cut off from the outside world. I likened it to the secret garden I read of in my library books. I had never been in such a place before. While we had no gardens in our tenement houses I had of course visited the Phoenix Park along with the other children of the street, yet, somehow this was different. I was not overwhelmed here in this place as one was with the vastness of the latter. We turned right along a narrow path and towards what looked like a tiny chapel. On entering I was surprised to find, not a church but a small room with an alter holding a life sized statue of the saint. The three rows of candle holders were already full, their flickering flames casting shadows high up to the vaulted ceiling within this small space. There were four pews with red velvet kneelers and space for two people on each pew, which filled the back wall. We knelt and prayed in the silence, well, Auntie Bridget prayed, I was too busy thinking of the fish and chip supper we were going to enjoy later on! The door opened and an auld fella (old man) entered. He knelt and prayed for a short time and then went to a small table in the corner I had not noticed before. I watched as, taking a small sheet of paper and a pencil from a basket he wrote something on the paper before placing it in the small basket on the alter adding to the many others that were there.
“What’s he doing” I asked
“He’s writing a petition” replied my auntie.
“What’s a petition?”
“Well, er, it’s a request. A kind of plea asking the saint for something he wants badly”
“Like what?”
“It could be anything, he may have lost something that he wants to find ,, or he could be praying for someone that’s sick, Ah, sure it could be for anything”
“Well then, how do they post them to Saint Anthony?” I asked thinking of that auld postman of ours who would not even go up a flight of stairs to deliver but stood in the hall shouting out the name until the person came all the way down to collect the letter. What were the chances of getting these (what had she called em ?)to heaven?
“Well, go on then, tell me how they get to heaven?”
“When the basket is full of petitions they are burned before the alter of Saint Anthony and don’t you worry, he gets them and knows what each person is praying and asking for”
“Can a person ask for anything?”
“Yes, within reason”
“And could I ask for” was as far as I got. That’s enough cried Auntie Bridget, now let me get on with my prayers”
Could I just ask one more question? Can I write out a petition? (I had learned a new word!)
Yes, yes, why don’t you ask for daddy and Uncle John to come home safely from the war?
I felt my face go red with guilt, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind!
This indeed was fabulous news to these young ears! My eyes lit up, the possibilities were endless. Why had nobody told me of this before?
Tiptoeing to the small table in the corner I took several sheets of paper and wetting the small stub of pencil between my lips proceeded to ask the good saint for the following.
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1 Could you please teach me how to turn the heel of that sock in sewing class as I’m always getting into trouble with Sister Margret Mary?
2 If you (cause you’re a man)) can’t teach me to turn the heel could you please see that I have chicken pox in the morning so I don’t have to go to school? (Thinks) On second thoughts, I think I’ll make that measles, sure didn’t Mary Muldoon just tell us in school last week about her aunt who had to wear a veil for the rest of her life after getting terrible scabs on her face from the auld chicken pox!
3 I hate being the small fat girl with the gym slip bursting at the seams at school. Could you please make me smaller? Hang on Saint Anthony, I don’t mean smaller in height (Oh God, how do I spell that word, deat? (diet) Better not ask Auntie Bridget, sure then she would know what I was asking for.) Well, if you would just make my clothes fit me better sure that would be grand!
4 Now I don’t want to be greedy but I wonder if you could change my nose and let me have a lovely little upturned one like my sister J and lovely tumbling curls like my sister M?
5 Oh, I almost forgot, could you bring daddy and Uncle John home safely from the war.
“In the name of the Lord God are you writing a book?” called out Auntie Bridget causing me to hastily fold my papers and place them with the others on the alter.
We left this lovely place and made our way to the “Chippy” where Aunty Bridget threw caution to the wind and bought us a one and one each! We went to her place and enjoyed our supper with the lovely crusty bread and the real butter!
The following morning saw me rush to the small mirror Uncle John used for shaving. I examined my face from every angle but not a spot or blemish in sight. I consoled myself thinking surely they would appear before I got to school? I could not see if my plump body had diminished overnight due to the lack of a full length mirror. On my way to school I peered at my reflection in every shop window that I passed hoping that the good Saint Anthony had by now received my urgent petition but, alas I still had to attend school and the dreaded sewing class that day.
“ I don’t know what’s got into you Bridget, sure you’re getting so vain, every time I look at you you’re looking into Nanas full length mirror” said my sister of the upturned nose. I thought of how full the basket of petitions had been before I placed mine and convinced myself Saint Anthony was very busy sorting that lot out before he reached mine, give him time! And so I waited and waited and in the end gave up hope of ever having tumbling curls and a pretty upturned nose, no, sure that auld Saint Anthony was no good! Sniffing loudly and tossing my long plaits, I made up my mind I wouldn't be writing to that auld fella ever again! But wait a minute, had I not heard Nana mention something about a Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes?
Er, now where in Dublin was there a shrine to Saint Jude????? Bridget x
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I think I should tender apoligies here as this is rather a long Recollection, I got "carried away!"
Come on all you older Dubs out there, why not add to this thread with YOUR memories. Bridget x
The Magic of Moore Street.
We were really pleased that mammy had chosen to go down Henry Street to reach Moore Street. That way we had to pass the ice cream man with his barrow at the junction of Liffy Street. We reasoned if she had not yet started her shopping we stood a good chance of getting an ice-cream! We almost always got one. The ice cream van was literally a white painted square box with a perfect circle cut out on top to accommodate the wooden barrel that held the ice-cream. The barrel would be surrounded by ice inside the box to prevent premature melting. Two bicycle wheels separated by an axle supported the box while jutting from the rear yet another wheel, part frame, and a saddle. The vendor would not even have to get down from this contraption to serve the ice cream. “Can we have a cornet mammy?” I asked. “Oh, go on then” replied mammy as we made our way to the cart. We children watched, our mouths watering as, leaning forward, the hand, holding the spatula disappeared inside the barrel, appearing seconds later with the creamy golden ice cream dripping from the spatulas end. We watched patiently as the ice cream was pushed and shaped until the build up resembled a miniature Mount Everest topped with a generous splash od rasberry. My little sister M, amused herself by using her forefinger to trace the red painted letters of “Ice Cream” emblazoned on the side of the cart. Greedily licking the ice cream, we continued on our way to collect the Saturday shopping.
Even before we turned the corner of Henry Street into Moore Street, we could smell the flowers. This particular stall holder took great pains to show them off to the best advantage arranging the tallest on top then graduating down to almost ground level with the shorter blooms, giving the effect of a wall of colour. It was not surprising to find a picture of this particular stall always included in the picture post cards of Moore Street that were sold all over the city. It was one of the busiest stalls in the market street and always had a crowd around it, either buying flowers or standing there just to admire the display. I secretly hoped the stall would be very busy that Saturday morning and my mammy would have to join a long queue thus giving me time to look for HER. Flowers for the house was a luxury we could not afford, the ones my mammy bought every Saturday were for the grave of my brother Michael. Auntie Bridget would buy them one week and mammy the following week.
I just knew she would be there once we turned the corner into Moore Street, Ah, sure wasn’t she always there with Nelson looking down on her from his pillar a hundred yards from where she sat. Yes, there she was the little auld one, sitting on the small stool, her back resting against the pub wall, her black fringed shawl almost covering the hunched body completely. While I had never seen her stood up I just knew she was very old and tiny. I waited and watched for the small puff of smoke I had come to expect. The bony gnarled hand crept from within the folds of the shawl clutching the once white clay pipe with the broken stem. Placing the jagged ends of the stem between the gums of the toothless mouth, she puffed heavily sending a white cloud of smoke billowing up into the air to mingle with and join all the other smells prevalent to Moore Street.
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She was not a dealer, (seller) but just sat there, the watery eyes in the wrinkled face looking out as the world passed her by. Why did she sit there day after day I wondered, was this preferable to sitting in some lonely tenement room on her own? I was sad for her, sure maybe all her little babies had died and there wasn’t even one to make her a bit of colcannon! “Couldn’t we give her a “thrupenny” bit mammy?” I had asked the week before. “No, we better not, sure didn’t Auntie Bridget drop a sixpence into her lap one day and the auld one rounded on her and only ate her” (Dublin expression meaning turned on the person and told them off) “Sure poor Bridget nearly died with embarrassment cause the auld one kept shouting after her” “ I’m not a beggar, I’ll have ya know” While I was used to seeing most of the auld women in their black shawls using snuff, I had never seen an old women smoke a pipe before. I loved to watch the ritual of the snuff snifters! A very small tin would be openly removed from dress or apron pockets. Using thumb and forefinger a pinch of the brown powder was carefully removed and placed on the back of the hand. The hand was then carefully raised to the nostril and with two deep inhalations it disappeared from view leaving a dusty brown residue along the upper lip. Within seconds, the user would be sneezing all over the place. The use of snuff was a common and accepted practice by older people way back then.
In my childhood nearly all the women of the poorer areas wore the fringed black shawls although occasionally, I sometimes spotted a fancy grey or fawn coloured one.
These were decorated with a ten inch band of embroidery with the obligatory fringing. I never knew if the wearers of these shawls were better off or perhaps, travelling people. Auld ones, their shopping completed were already making their way into the snug of the corner pub to enjoy a bottle, (or two) of Guinness. How I wished they would take the pipe smoking auld one in with them but I never saw that happen, I consoled myself with the thought “Ah, well, sure maybe she’s a teetotaller” Maura Kelly had us young ones (girls) in stitches when she once told us her granny had gone down Moore Street shopping and had called in for a bottle of Guinness but stayed too long and only got stocious. (Drunk) Ah Ja--s said she, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, sure didn’t she lose her auld shopping bag with all the week end shopping in it! Me granda went mad when he came home from the pub that night only to find there wasn’t even a crubeen (pigs feet) in sight!! Sure there was only holy murder!!
“Bridget, will you come away out of that and stop staring” said ma as she approached me, a bunch of flowers in one hand while the other clasped the small hand of my wriggling three year old sister M. “Honest to God mammy, she (old woman) did not see me looking, sure wasn’t I peeking out from behind one of the stalls” We carried on up the street and even though it was early morning already the place was piled high with rubbish. The outer leaves of cauliflowers, cabbages and discarded bruised fruit already littered the road. The now empty boxes that had contained apples, oranges, and bananas were pushed to one side, their contents now on display on the dealer’s stalls. Pyramids of red rosy apples lined the front of the stalls with grapefruit and oranges lending even more colour to the rear. Bunches of bananas vied for space with plump juicy green grapes and strawberries when in season. Part of Moore Streets attraction was the calls and shouts of the dealers as they tried to attract customers to buy from them. Holding out handful of apples they would call out things like” There ya are missus, all them lovely apples for only sixpence, sure you’d make the auld fella four lovely pies with this lot” If a customer went too far looking for a reduction on a purchase of already cheap fruit they would get mad and sarcastically ask” Would you like me to bag them up and give ya them for nothing? Will you get off now out of that” They were funny and witty and could more than “hold their own” with awkward customers. We knew a lot of the dealers as they lived in our street. What hard working women they were.
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When I was very small I would see them going out in the early morning on the way to the fruit market to collect their orders. In those days they each owned and pushed a very deep wicker type pram with a wooden tray, similar to that of a baker’s delivery tray. Having collected the fruit, fish or vegetables they would then have to push this heavy load all the way to Moore Street ready to set up their stall. The tray was used to display their goods. If it was raining they would have to stand in the wet clothes all day trying to earn a few shillings. I don’t think they dared go home to change for fear of missing the early customers. Years later, an enterprising young man who owned a horse and cart took over the job of collecting the orders from the fruit and fish markets. He would deliver them to the street. Some of the women had sold on Moore Street for years having taken over where their mothers had left off. In most cases their own daughters would take over from them after they had retired but most choose to work into old age. The women of Moore Street were a community unto themselves always ready and willing to help each other in times of trouble, they were a grand lot never refusing to give generously to some cause or benefit.
Both sides of the street were always busy, each housewife making for their own favourite butchers or pork butchers shop. Apart form a couple of pubs and the Maypole dairy I cant remember any other type of shop in Moore Street; it was mainly made up of meat and poultry shops. Oh, yes, how could I have forgotten the sweet shops with glass jars lining every shelf with a wonderful selection of sweets. Bulls eyes, black and white mints, Nancy balls which we would lick and then smear the outer brown coloured shell along our lips for “lipstick,” cinder toffee, coconut macaroons, (my favourite) tiny dolly mixture and last, but not least liquorice all sorts. I marvelled at the dexterity of the shopkeeper as she wet her thumb and removed a small square of paper from the pile already cut. A couple of twist of the wrist and there it was, a perfect paper cone ready to receive the sweets as they slid from the brass scoop of the weighing scales. How many times had I practised this manover, ready to show off to my little friends as we prepared to play “shop” in the street? I failed dismally, perhaps this was why I could still not turn the heel of that bl---y sock in sewing class at school and it was true what Sister Margaret Mary said, I was “ham fisted”
Large barrels of brine lined the pavement outside the butchers holding various sized chunks of corned beef, the traditional Sunday meal for most Dubliners served with cabbage, parsnips and potatoes.
To this day I maintain no women could haggle like the Dublin women of that era and my mammy was up there with the best of them! They would never, ever be guilty of “buying a pig in a poke” as the auld saying goes. Before entering the butchers shop they would peer into the barrel of brine, poking and examining the piece of corned beef from all angles before making the final choice. Had someone mentioned “Health and Safety” checks in those days they would have been met with a blank stare! Mammy went into the same butchers every week and had done so for years. Every week the same old battle of wits would be re-enacted but each week a different ploy would be used, sometimes I thought it was Maureen Potter’s skirt I was hanging onto!
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On entering the shop the usual pleasantries were gotten out of the way before they got down to the real business.
Ah, there ya are Pat, and how are ya today? How is the missus?
Ah, game ball, we are both game ball; (well) Mind ya we had to bring the young fella up to Temple Street hospital the other night. He got a right fall off the back wall and split his head open but, sure thank God he’s all right now.
“I’m telling ya, you would want eyes in the back of your head with the devilment they get up to”
“Ah, sure you never said a truer word missus. Right now, what can I get ya?”
Pointing to the outside barrel “Will you show me that piece of corned beef?” walking back outside with him, to show the piece she wanted.
“Ah, you have a good eye; sure that’s a grand bit of beef”
“Well then, will ya weigh it for me, then I’ll let you know if it’s a grand piece of beef or not!”
Placing the meat on the scales, “There ya are now, that will be four and six” (four old shillings and six pence)
(Mammy’s face instantly registers a look of shock (well practised) and her voice is raised by a couple of octaves)
“Four and six! Is it mad ya are? Sure there’s not the making of a good sandwich in that, do ya think I’m one of them fancy auld ones from Ballsbridge? (Wealthy area) I’ll give you three shillings for it” Huh, four and six indeed! Do ya think I’m made of money?”
“Ah, missus, I can’t let you have it for that, sure that would be more than me jobs worth”
Mammy’s (a wonderful actress) face now changes from pretended shock to one of indignity as she makes a pretence of walking out of the shop.
“Well now, you can please yourself, but just remember you’re not the only butchers in Moore Street, and after all the years I’ve been coming in here!” (Sniffing loudly for good effect!)
She almost reaches the outside pavement before the butcher calls her back.
“My God you’re a hard woman, Ah, go on then, I’ll let you have it for three and six”
“That’s grand, sure you’re a grand man, and I’ll not forget to say a little prayer that you’re young fella gets better, now tell him not to be climbing on any more walls”
My older sister had regaled us with the tale of the previous weeks shopping when mammy had told poor Pat the butcher, “Sure Mr Murphy, (late previous shop owner) would “only turn over in his grave if he knew the prices you are charging”
We left the butchers, the corned beef already leaking water despite being wrapped in several large sheets of white paper. Mammy was happy and smiling as we headed toward the Maypole to collect the sugar that came in a stout black paper bag. As always there was a queue but I held my sister Ms hand as we waited outside the shop.
We watched as the man they called “sailor” appeared on the opposite side of the road. We were not allowed to cross the road but it did not matter as we could see him from where we stood outside the shop. He was usually to be seen at the other end of the street but sure now, them auld police must have moved him on and him not doing a bit of harm to anyone. He was old and shabby, wearing runners (plimsolls) from which the corns and bunions peeked through. I guessed he must have got his name from the small sailor’s hat he wore on the back of his bald head as I could see nothing else that would indicate he was a man of the sea. He was one of the many street entertainers of Dublin. He carried the plywood top of an old tea chest under his arm which, when he was ready to entertain he laid on the ground scattering a good few handfuls of sand on top. Without music he whistled as he carried out a soft shoe shuffle never once stepping outside of the limited space of the small square of plywood. Because of the lack of music or singing most people considered him to be a right auld amadaun. (Fool. The most famous street entertainers were a family whose name I have long since forgotten. They stood outside Todd Burns in Henry Street; the mother played a really large harp, the father the violin while the tall blonde handsome son sang to the crowds in the most amazing voice. They were truly talented and it was said they had offers to turn professional but had turned down all offers because they could earn more money from busking. (Does anyone out there remember them?)
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Mammy had her hands full with the shopping so I had to hold on tightly to little Ms hand as we entered Coles Lane. It was always packed with people looking for bargains amongst the second hand stalls. The voice of auld Molly, one of the stall holders could be heard above all the rest, Ma always said “She does have lovely things, I’m sure she must get them from the big houses” It was apparent Molly was not in a very good mood that day, business was slack and no eager hands could be seen raised to buy. She was reduced to berating the crowd with cries of, “In the name of the lord Je—s, what’s wrong with you lot, do youse want the things for nothing?” At one point I wondered had she taken acting lessons from Ma as, with a sigh of forced resignation and a heave of her ample bosom she held up a jacket, asking, “Go on then, who will give me one and six for this lovely jacket?” (Silence from the crowd.) “What? No takers? (And yet another sigh of resignation)Ah, go on then, it breaks me heart but I’ll let it go for eighteen (old) pennies” Up would go the hand of yet another auld amadaun (fool) who obviously couldn’t count! We did not stay long as little M was getting tired. I always hated leaving the hustle and bustle of Moore Street, for me it almost had a carnival atmosphere.
The shopping was almost completed, we only had to pick up the black and white pudding and a few pork sausages from Steins, just around the corner in Parnell Street. Everyone said Haffners in Henry Street made the best sausages in the whole of Dublin but as far as our family was concerned nobody could come close to Steins for sausages and didn’t I know it! Rather than go all the way to Steins for some sausages, as instructed, I had gone to the little pork butchers in Capel Street thinking mammy would never know the difference. How wrong I was. Even the youngest child turned her nose up at Sunday morning breakfast pushing the plate away crying, “Not lice”
She had trouble pronouncing her “Ns” Today that child is an old age pensioner but family members are fond of asking her “Have you bought any lice dresses recently” and things to that effect!! For my sins, I had to black-lead not only our fireplace but also the huge one upstairs in the rooms that had belonged to nana. Bridget x
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Beautiful, Bridget, just beautiful! Thanks again for these marvelous stories.
Pat
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Ah, Thanks Pat, so glad you are enjoying the stories. (Beautiful?) You are of course referring to me
Emm, aren't you? LOL Bridget x
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But of course, A thaisce! ;D
Pat
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. An unravelled YARN
“Marie Lennord, come to the top of the class and show the pupils your work” Marie left her desk, a satisfied smirk on her face as she sallied forth clutching the needles and red coloured piece of knitting she was working on. Holding aloft the yard long scarf Sister Regis invited us, the class, to notice the perfect tension of the neat rows of plain and purl stitches and perfectly straight edges with not a dropped stitch in sight! I swear she looked directly at me as she uttered the words “dropped stitches”! The sewing class had already graduated from learning how to tack and hem stitch and now entered the puzzling world of knitting. The pupils were issued with small balls of various coloured wool and shown how to cast on stitches, continuing to the required length in rows of one line of plain and one line of purl, before finally casting off. The words domestic science had not yet entered our vocabulary. I cowered even further down in my desk hopelessly endeavouring to hide what had commonly come to be known as “The bottle shaped scarf” I had gotten off to a fairly good scarf (to my mind) even though it took all of my strength to get a needle between the stitches, I had cast them on so tightly! Sadly, after about five inches of knitting (holes included) was completed I had somehow gone astray and dropped several stitches from both sides thereby leaving me with a piece of work that resulted in a perfect bottle shape, hence the name! I unravelled and re-knit that piece of work so often it looked as though every rat in our street had chewed on it. Sister Regis was not amused, as at the end of the class year all these pieces had to be unravelled ready for the following years pupils. Oh, the shame as it was pointed out to me what expert knitters and sewers my two sisters were, “a credit to your mammy”. I pondered over this as while mammy could cook and clean with the best of them she could not knit if it were to save her life! I heaved a sigh of relief as we left that class glad to see the back of my bottle shaped scarf although I liked Sister Regis, despite everything, she was great. Ah, had I but known what lay ahead of me!
Our next class up and I inwardly shuddered as the voice of Sister Anthony, our new sewing teacher informed the class,” Now children, as you have learned how to knit in your last class and are familiar with the different stitches and terms, we are now going to learn how to knit socks. This will be done on four needles and you will be required to bring the following materials” I visibly paled recalling my difficultly with the simple scarf when I couldn’t manage two needles never mind four! Oh God, why couldn’t they lower the school leaving age to eleven instead of fourteen then I wouldn’t have to go through this torture? I timed my request for knitting needles and several ounces of wool, badly! My sister had just beaten me to it with a request for ingredients for the cookery class.
“Mammy, I have to have four knitting needles and some dark wool, Sister Anthony said so”
“You want needles and wool, the other one wants flour butter and sultanas, just what do them sh---ing nuns think I am, Rothschild?” (I didn’t dare ask who or what Rothschild was)
“But mammy-----“
“You can “but mammy” all you want, I haven’t got the money and that’s the end of it and tell the nun I said so”
“But I can’t go into school and say that to the nun”
Very crossly,” Well, would you like me to go over to the school; and I’ll tell her? I’ll soon tell them I don’t know where the next meal is coming from, never mind needles and wool!”
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I started to cry and the ever present eccentric Auntie Bridget tried to console me.
“Hush now, your mammy hasn’t got the money to buy these things, sure we’ll try and get you them from somewhere”
Some days later she arrived at our house with the ever present shopping bag and a smile on her face.
“Well now, Didn’t I tell you Saint Anthony was good? You have nothing to worry about, I got you the wool”
This broken heart was instantly mended, I could not wait to see what colour wool she had bought and wondered, had she got me the needles as well? Oh God, was she never going to take off her hat and coat and couldn’t she wait to gossip with Ma until after she had shown me the precious wool? I waited patiently; she could be so awkward. I knew she could get on her high horse in an instant if I tried to hurry her!
“Do you have little nail scissors?” she asked my mammy as she reached into her shopping bag withdrawing the largest khaki coloured jumper I had ever seen!
“Now, she said, as she looked towards my astonished face, we’ll start on the sleeves first, you unravel one while I do the other, I’ll start it off for you”
This then was my introduction to something that would haunt me for the rest of my school life! We unpicked, it broke, we knotted, we unpicked, again the wool broke and we knotted it yet again and so it went on and on until finally, late into the night we finished and were left with a ball of wool as big as a football!! I should mention here that by now, because of the huge number of knots sticking out all over the giant ball now looked like a giant hedgehog. You will have gathered that, Auntie Bridget, like mammy was not a knitter! Why we never made it into small manageable balls I will never know but reasoned at least it would be an acceptable colour for socks, didn’t soldiers wear khaki socks? I had read somewhere that little girls in England were knitting socks and balaclavas for soldiers in the war. My imagination kicked in and a picture of a little girl working her fingers to the bone knitting socks to keep the troops warm emerged. Eyeing the huge ball of wool I reckoned, not only would I knit a pair of socks for my daddy but also a pair for Uncle John with enough wool left over to make socks for a whole garrison! I could almost visualise the headlines! Little Irish girl breaks all records by knitting 200 pairs of socks for the troops!! Ah, but in my eagerness hadn’t I forgotten something? Er--- if I hadn’t managed to complete one horrible little scarf how ever was I going to manage all those socks? I can and I will sprang to mind, sure weren’t my sisters grand knitters, they would help me. I was yet to find out we were not allowed to take our work home from school. On that first day of sewing in our new class I watched as my fellow pupils removed the virgin balls of wool from their bags. Small balls of black, navy and assorted shades of browns, the paper seals, still unbroken, holding the wool in place. It took both of my hands to remove the huge ball of khaki wool from the bag Auntie Bridget had supplied me with. The eyes of Ann O’ Mally, the girl who shared my desk almost doubled in size when she caught sight of it. Her whispered Jea—s, Mary and Joseph turned into a loud snigger causing the rest of the class to turn around. Gasps, followed by loud laughter caused Sister Anthony to call for silence. She approached my desk to find out the cause of the disruption in her class and I could discern a lifting of her eyebrows on catching sight of my wool. I had made up my mind to repeat (should she question me) what Ma had said about “Tell the nuns I haven’t got the money for wool and needles” of course, leaving out the bit about who did they think mammy was, as I couldn’t remember the name she had mentioned, (Rothschild) Looking back now I think Sister Anthony was a wise old woman who at a glance took in the monstrous wavy ball of wool and probably guessed the reason behind it! Saving me further embarrassment she loudly proclaimed, for the benefit of the class “Sure that’s a grand big ball of wool Bridget, now I’m sure you’ll get several pairs of socks out of that”
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Sister Anthony patiently taught us how to cast stitches on to four needles and of course, as usual, I cast them on so tight I struggled from one needle to the next. Tongue out, eyes down I would manage to knit the stitches from one needle with great difficulty but always managed to drop stitches before reaching the next, thus, more unpicking! Months into our new class my classmates were well ahead of me having already knitted a length of tubular work and were now ready to “turn the heel” while I was still on the rib! By the end of the term while all of the class were by now drawing the wool through to finish the toe of the sock I had just about managed to get past the rib and completed about two inches of plain and purl. It was time to move on to the next class up and sadly, my now hated appendage (that’s what it felt like) came with me.LOL I was not given or allowed a “pass” never even having completed one sock, never mind a pair. And still it stuck, accompanying me all the way until I had completed my education at the ripe old age of fourteen! My dreams of supplying socks to the whole Western Front (my own personnel war effort) lay in ruins. I had visions of hundreds of soldiers dying of frostbite and all because I had never managed to learn how to knit socks. On leaving day, we were told to clear our desks and take any unfinished sewing or knitting work home with us. I had hoped to “forget” my, by now famous ball of wool but was given a kindly reminder by the head boarder, “Bridget (titters) don’t forget your lovely ball of wool!
At that time hand ball was a very popular game in Dublin, I had to pass the Ball alley on my way home. The playing area was surrounded by high railings. I stopped by the railings and removed the still huge ball of wool from its bag. Standing on tiptoe I tied one end of the wool to the railings and proceeded on home leaving a trail of wavy, knotted khaki wool in my wake. I got as far as Capel Street before I felt it snagging and looking back saw a group of small boys following its trail.
“Hey young fellas, do ya want a football” I shouted as I threw it up and kicked it in their direction just as I had seen my brothers do. … Bridget x
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I do hope you are enjoying the above little recollections as seen through the eyes of a child. If you are enjoying them, thank you for strolling back down memory lane with me. I worry that the writings may have become too personal or family orientated. If that is the case I shall certainly try and "broaden" them a bit. Thanks for the Emails, you are very kind. Bridget x
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I love your stories Bridget, and read them with pleasure :D
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Hi Bridget,
Do keep coming on with your lovely stories! They reminded me of my Dad's stories from his childhood up in Belfast.
Thank you for sharing great stories with us, the Rootschatters!
Kind regards,
Tees
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Now Bridget, don't you dare stop these beautiful stories now! They bring back some wonderful memories for me too, growing up in Warrenpoint after the war.
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I guess Vic was the type of man you would find in most work places. One who was constantly “set up” by his fellow workmates, not I should hastily add, in a vindictive way. He was a gentle giant of a man aged around thirty five years, 6ft 4ins tall and weighing about twenty stone. One of the first things you noticed about Vic, was his hands. They were huge, as many remarked looking like hams! Vic worked very hard at trying to be “one of the boys” His favourite stance was to hold his great big mitts behind his back nodding or shaking his head in a very knowing way as he walked to and fro. Poor Vic was not very bright. He arrived in work one day really upset because his pet budgie had died. When the lads asked what had happened to it Vic explained, quite innocently that it had escaped from it’s cage and in trying to capture it, he had managed to grasp it, cupping it in his hands but in so doing had crushed it to death!!! I think what best illustrates Vic was the following. My very best friend Ann was off work for three months having had a hysterectomy. Vic came talking to me one day and in the course of our conversation remarked that he had not seen my friend for a very long time, had she left, he asked? I explained that she had had an operation and would be off work for some time. “What was the operation for?” asked Vic. “Woman’s trouble,” I replied thinking he would not know what I was talking about if I explained and I was not prepared to go into a detailed description of something so intimate! Vic still persisted, “what sort of women’s trouble” he asked? Assuring myself he would not know the meaning of the word I replied, “Ann has had a hysterectomy” With hands clasped behind his back he took his usual two steps forward and two steps back returning with a painful expression on his face. With a knowing nod Vic exclaimed” You don’t have to tell me about that” I was amazed to here him say, “That’s a very serious and painful operation” until he added, my father in law had that and he was off work for months.!! LOL Bridget x
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;D ;D LOL bridget,
where have you been - i've missed your stories
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Bridget:
So good to see you back again!! I have missed you and your wonderful stories.
Pat
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One could tell it had been a magnificent hall door in its day, but that was a long time ago. Made of solid oak, it needed not only the two arms, but also the shoulder of a child to push it open. At first glance it looked as if the wood worm had enjoyed many a feast on it but, on closer inspection this did not prove to be the case. The game of darts, and rings beloved by the boys of the street had left their mark on its once beautiful surface. Like an evil open mouth, the long gone letterbox left a gaping hole causing the wind to rush through the wide hall like a train passing through a tunnel. More often than not it was stuffed with an old jumper by the tenant of the ground floor rooms as she muttered “Ja—s, sure its like living in Siberia” Somehow, the “Lions head” door knocker had survived but never again would its “roar” echo throughout the large house bringing a maid to open the door and inform the caller, “Madam/Sir is not home today but if you would care to leave your card?” The lions head was now rusted to the under plate and if the boys in our street had not managed to remove it nobody could! How long I wondered, since it was last painted? A long time, many years ago, back to a time when the gentry occupied these once grand houses in the very heart of Dublin. The once gleaming paintwork had long since worn away down to the actual wood, gone, just as the wealthy owners had fled to their country estates or back to their second homes in England. The houses had been sold to unscrupulous absent landlords who, over the years had turned the many rooms into individual flats, cramming as many families as they could into each house. From salon to saloon these houses now constituted the infamous slums of North Dublin, my childhood home. While the odd one or two owners would make the effort to do repairs, even they, in the long run gave up.
With sometimes as many as six families sharing a house the constant complaints of the (one) toilet blocking up and the cold water tap in the back yard freezing over, they choose to ignore the complaints and look the other way! The family occupying the top flat always fared the worse. Not only did they share the hardship and indignities of their fellow tenants but also had to contend with rain pouring into their rooms from leaky roofs causing wallpaper to peel away from walls and bedding to become sodden with rainwater. While many tenants referred to the rent collector as the landlord he was, in reality just an agent for the owner, collecting rents and listening to the ever constant barrage of complaints. To be an agent, one needed a pair of strong shoulders, a skin as thick as hide and a heart made of stone.
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The above mentioned door was almost flung off its hinges as the very tall figure of Mrs C emerged. She stepped on to the flagged top of the four steps, one of the only two houses in the street which had steps leading up to its front door. Glancing upwards at the overcast sky she stretched her arms straight outwards, hands gripping the black fringed shawl ready to wrap it even more tightly around her broad shoulders against the chill of the morning air. One was reminded of the figurehead on the prow of a ship but her enemies likened it to “more like a large black bat out of hell!” The movement exposed her very large pendulous breasts brought about by breast feeding her fifteen children. She had actually given birth to eighteen babies in all but lost two teenage girls to the dreaded tuberculosis and a still born baby. Large families were the norm in our street, usually ten or eleven children, I was one of eleven but only eight survived. The home made sack “apron” only emphasised the large belly even more as it reached down, almost touching the top of the large black boots she always wore. She was much feared and while she was capable of fighting any woman or man in the street, she was well respected as a “good knocker out” (meaning she would do anything legal or illegal to get the money to feed her large brood) She was then aged about 38 years but looked about 60. As a child I always thought she was the granny and not the mammy! The once luxurious hair, now grey in parts, was pulled to the back of the head in a coil and held in place by large hairpins. I had often overheard the “auld ones” talk of the beauty she had once been. To hear them talk “Sure hadn’t she been a statuesque beauty in her day, her beautiful face set off by a mass of thick black hair and wearing her trademark gold gipsy earrings” “Sure every fella for miles around was daft after her, she could have had the pick of the crop, yes, even moneyed fellas and she goes and ends up with that little runt” The little runt they referred to was Mrs Cs husband P who apparently never did a days work from the day they married! Mrs C would not hear a word said against him proclaiming to one and all “My poor P is of a delicate disposition, God love him, sure isn’t that why he has to depend on the dispensary money” While none of the streets women would dare to disagree with her one (brave) neighbour (out of earshot) would fold her hands beneath her arms as she sniffed loudly “Delicate my a—e! He’s not very delicate when he gets between the sheets churning out babies”
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Mrs C stood on the top step clutching the stained rent book in her hand. She did not have a clear view to the top corner of the street from whence she knew the rent collector would appear. Clutching the railings by the side of the steps she heaved her large frame down until she was stood on the pavement. She wiped the rust she had collected from the railings from her hand by rubbing it against the side of the shawl.
She fretted and worried, furtively looking around to see if any one else had heard the news and, like her was waiting to catch the rent man. He would have four houses to visit before reaching hers, that was five families in the first, a small house, six in the next and eight in the next, but Holy Mother of Jesus (blessing herself) the next house was “The Buildings” a large double sided place that housed sixteen families in all!! Thirty five calls to make before he reached her! She consoled herself muttering “Sure Ja—s, half of them won’t answer the knock on the door holding their hands over the babies mouth until he gave up and moved on, sure how many times had she done that herself when she did not have the money to pay the rent?
Right on time Mr Cody the rent collector appeared around the corner. Even if one did not recognise him by the large ledger he inevitably carried his size and clothes made him easily identifiable. A Cork man, he was six foot four in height and always wore a tweed jacket with wide grey flannel trousers, white shirt and a tie. Like many of the men who worked behind desks for Dublin City Corporation he too always had a couple of fountain pens peeking from his breast pocket! I think they thought it impressed and indeed intimidated the slums people, giving us the impression that they were men of letters and well educated, sure what would we know? Mrs C watched and waited as he entered the first house, it took him some time so she figured out he was in luck there and had collected the rents. She was impatient and could not bear to wait while he entered the next house. Mr Cody spied the tall unmistakable figure of Mrs C rushing towards him. While he was amazed to spot the rent book appear from beneath the folds of the shawl he still had time to mutter under his breath, “Sweet Mary and Joseph, here comes trouble.
“Ah, sure there you are Mr. Cody, a bit chilly this morning isn’t it?”
“Well now, it’s not to bad, I’ve seen it worse”
Pushing the rent book into his hands and smiling broadly she proclaimed for the benefit of those now passing by,
“There’s me rent and (with a flourish) a shilling off the arrears!
Mr Cody was certain now there was something afoot! No hassle getting the rent this week but the shilling off the arrears really had him worried! He took the book and entered the amount at the same time deducting a shilling off the five shillings already owed.
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Lowering her voice she edged closer to him as she whispered,
“Have you heard about my poor Lilly?”
“No, I haven’t, why, what’s happened to her? He asked in the Cork accent, so different to that of our Dublin drawl.
“Sure God love her, she’s only gone and got herself in the family way and she only after turning sixteen!”
“Ah, missus, sure she wont be the first and she wont be the last will she now?”
“Well now, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. They are going to be married but have no place to live. I have no room to put another body up what with my lot! Sure three of them sleep over at me Ma’s and the eldest fella has gone to work down in the country and sure Ja—s, it’s still like living in a sardine tin with my young ones!
“Missus, sure I’m sorry to hear that but I don’t see how I can help you” (trying to edge away from her)
“Were you not aware Mr Cody that auld Mr. Shields from number fifteen was taken away last Sunday, God love him. He was taken to hospital but has since been put up into the Union (poorhouse) Sure he’s eighty if he’s a day and he won’t be coming home! Could you not see your way in letting my Lilly and her fella have his room?
“Ah, I’m sorry Mrs C but that room has already been “spoken” for” (nervously)
Outraged voice. “Spoken for! By who? I’ve been watching that place all week and saw no one go in or out”
“Mr Sheilds daughter has already asked for that room, the room she had in Ryder’s Row was condemned and she did not want to move out of this area so she is getting her Da’s room”
Tentatively, Eh, I do have a cellar vacant over in the South side, would she be interested in that?
“Are ya mad or what? Sure if she moved over there I would not see hide nor hair of her!
Snatching the rent book from his hand she turned and made her way back to her own door, her face red with anger not just at the fact that she had paid that extra shilling but at the thought of sixteen year old Lilly and her predicament. All the times she had warned her, “don’t end up like me” but that was exactly what she had done, poor cow. She thought of the lovely fellas she herself could have had, some with grand steady jobs, but then, how could she condemn Lilly for getting pregnant at sixteen? Had she not done just that? Yet, here she was begging for a room in a tenement house, a place where she would have to share a toilet with dozens of other people and have a baby every year just like me. Again the “hard” woman of the street pulled herself up the steps as she clutched the railings and on reaching the dimness of the first floor landing let the tears of disappointment fall as she buried her face in the shawl and muttered “But Lilly, I wanted so much more for you. Although her dreams disintegrated I guess she had hoped that those of her children would raise from the ashes like a Phoenix and become a reality.
P.S. While Mrs Cs children all married and some had large families none ever achieved their mothers quota! Times were starting to change for the women of Ireland No longer would they allow themselves to be treated as second class citizens and cowed down or be dictated to by state or church as their mothers before them had been. It was still a time of great poverty. They did eventually all managed to get rooms either in our or adjacent streets and were always there for her. Now her grandchildren on the other hand did really wonderfully well for themselves excelling at school and later University. Some would open their own businesses while others held top positions in their field in Ireland, England and America. They would take their grandmother on trips abroad and treat her like a queen. Nothing but the best now from Arnotts and other such stores,the sack apron and big old boots but a distant memory, and rightly so, who deserved it more? How good that her last years were worry free. Bless her, she had her share bringing up such a large family as had all the other mammy's and indeed grannies in our area. The “very delicate” Mr. C outlived his wife by several years. One wonders if there is a lesson to be learned there?? Bridget x
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Beautiful, Bridget, just beautiful! I am glad to see you back again. I have missed these wonderful stories.
Pat
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It is strange when reflecting and looking back on one’s childhood how well one remembers the simple things that gave us so much pleasure. Halcyon summer days walking to the Phoenix park with a “borrowed” baby if the family did not have one of their own. What a sight we must have made! Even the prams left a lot to be desired having been passed down through the family, some, their buckled wheels determined to go their own way as we endeavoured to push them in a straight line. Yet, even these were better than the home made hand-carts made from a couple of old orange boxes with two long, home made handles, nailed to the sides to push themt! An old cushion or pillow would be placed in the box for the child’s comfort! As many as eight of us would take part in this “excursion” with our assortment of old prams and box-carts blocking up the whole footpath much to the annoyance of the auld ones making their way to Mass to the several churches along the Liffey. We went well prepared for our day out with bottles of water, a couple of jam sandwiches and, if we were very lucky a bag of broken biscuits from Mrs Ts corner shop. Not for our babies the fancy banana shaped feeding bottles of those times! Why spend precious coppers on those when an empty Chef’s sauce bottle, filled with milk would serve the same purpose. We walked along the path opposite as the one nearest the water was too narrow to accommodate our motley crew. We would listen out, hoping to hear the deafening warning hooter of a Guinness barge as it approached one of the many bridges. How we hoped we would not be “between bridges” otherwise it would involve a mad dash with our unreliable transport to make it to the bridge in time to watch the barge pass under it. We always made it, minus a wheel or two and oh, our joy as we stationed ourselves in the centre of the bridge watching and waiting as the barge came chugging up the river towards our vantage spot. None of us were tall enough to see over the bridge's parapet so dozens of little toes wedged themselves between the balustrades and small hands gripped the hard, cold stoned top of the bridge as we hauled ourselves up to rest our top halves on the wide ledge. Holding our breaths we would wait for the moment, silent, until we saw one of the bargees start to lower the huge funnel thus enabling the barge to pass under the bridge. Then it came, the huge cloud of steam and smoke enveloping us in its mist until we were lost from each other in the blackness of time. How I have relived these moments when one was thrown into a white world, smelling that peculiar smell of steam with only the shrill screams and giggles of my small playmates assuring me I was not, thankfully, on my own. Another mad dash across the road to the opposite side of the bridge and just in time to watch the barge emerge from its dark cavern! While the Guinness boats would give us children so much pleasure their contents would bring disruption and sadness to many as I would learn some years later, We would continue our journey to the park still talking of our “terrifying” experience. When we reached Collins Army barracks near Benburb Street we always stopped to admire the large cannon placed in the centre of the lawn.
We waited to hear the same old story from Chrissie as she related how “My Granda told me this was the gun they used to run the Tans out of Ireland”
While behind her back Esther mouthed silently “Dirty little liar” and then, to her face, “Sure, for J—us sake, that auld thing is so rusted it hasn’t been fired since Noah built his auld ark”
Chrissie, (red faced) “And what would you know? Sure wasn’t my Granda there during the “troubles” so he should know what he’s talking about!”
Esther. “Your Granda my a—e! Aren’t ya forgetting I was the one who won the holy picture at school for me knowledge of Irish History?”
Chrissie. “Yeah, and we all know ya would never have won it only Marie Lennord was off sick with them auld mumps. Sure, she’s miles better than you at the Irish history, clever clogs”
The pointless childish repetition only came to an end when it was suggested that we should eat now as “had we not travelled and pushed these prams for miles?” (One mile) Nothing tasted better than those jam sandwiches and bottles of water. The babies were given their milk from the glass Chef bottles and for those who could eat, some broken biscuits. We would have eaten our “rations” before reaching the park but, unperturbed would carry on spending the day rolling down grassy hillocks and having competitions to see which one of us could race up the steps of Lord Gough's monument in the fastest time. Alas, for the poor ducks in the pond, we never had a crumb left to feed them! Bridget x
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As soon as one opened the door of the pub the nostrils were assailed by the smell of tobacco, beer, and indeed urine from the open door of the men’s toilets. The room was long and the polished counter, its top stained with the ring marks of the many pint glasses, followed the shape of the room culminating at its end in what was known as the “snug”. A brass foot rail on which the men rested a foot as they leaned on the counter and drank numerous pints of beer was a stark contrast to the saw dust covered floor. The wall behind the bar was covered by large mirrors proclaiming in large print how “Guinness was good for you” and “Jameson’s whiskey was smooth to the taste” In the Dublin of the 1940/50s, the pubs (bars) really were bastions of male supremacy where the men socialised, most of them spending money they could ill afford while the mammy stayed at home fretting about how she was going to make ends meet. This Holy Grail was forbidden to women with the exception of the “Auld ones” as the streets grannies were affectionately known!! Even then the auld ones were assigned to the snug, usually a small narrow room that would seat about ten. This retreat was partitioned from the main room by a wall of wood and frosted glass which did not reach the ceiling thus giving them access to the swearing, fights, and conversations taking place in the main room. Apart from the grannies, women did not enter pubs. I wondered were the auld ones afforded this privilege because they had reached the later years of their lives and, as many were widows and had no man to answer to? The snug was where they gathered in their uniform of black fringed shawls covering the cross-over aprons and stout black shoes/boots. They would linger over their bottles of Guinness or, depending on funds or the generosity of a son in the main bar a small” Baby power” (whiskey) they would talk of the old days, their families and the latest gossip of the street. The grannies of Dublin played a huge part in its social structures. They were the ones who, having raised a large family of their own willingly took on the added responsibility of grandchildren, taking them to live with them in the many cases of overcrowding of their own offspring’s dwellings. This was such a common practice that sometimes we children addressed the children with the grannies surname. Overcrowding amongst families in the tenement rooms was a major problem especially when the children became teenagers.
Grown up children could no longer be expected to share a bedroom and this is where most grannies came into their own taking as many as three boys or girls to live with them. Even meal times brought its own problems and the only solution was to feed the families separately which involved more stratagems than would be necessary in organising a Saint Patricks parade! Grannies were highly respected by their children and grandchildren. They would get away with almost anything and indeed there were those who shamelessly revelled in the role of matriarch.. The auld ones were the ones called upon to sort out most of the problems which, if they could, they invariably did but with one exception. If a daughter or son wanted to return home due to martial problems the auld one was adamant in her refusal. It was almost like a mantra, “You made your bed, now lie on it” and under no circumstances would they allow a son or daughter back home whatever the justification. I write of a time when divorce was unheard of, a time when even a separation would bring great shame on the family. They, the older generation were of a school who believed that when you married, it was for life whatever the pitfalls or circumstances. Sadly, the full breakdown of conventional gender role was still a very far off distant dream for many of the women who suffered obscene brutality at the hands of drunken husbands.
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The expression, Macho Man” had not even entered our vocabulary way back then, had it done, I reckon the men in and around our area would have won first prize in the stakes for the title. As most of the men were Dockers, with the reputation for being a hard tough lot, to be seen pushing a pram, or indeed doing any type of “woman’s work” was unheard of, they would never have lived it down. It was considered unmasculine to look after children. I am perhaps being unfair here to the very few men who were brave enough to defy convention and help their wives. Looking back now, with hindsight, I applaud those men who had enough courage and compassion to recognise what a hard lot their women had to put up with and got on with the job of doing their bit even if in most cases it was behind closed doors. They suffered the jibes and derision of their neighbours and were referred to locally as Molly/Mary Anns. Of course I was not even aware of such matters then. For me and many others, the sight of men coming home very drunk and beating up their wives was the norm, something one got used to in our tenement environment. In fact I am loath to say these, usually Saturday night fights between spouses became a form of diversion for the women of the street after their mundane day of washing, cooking and cleaning, something that broke the monotony and took them away from, (sad to say,) their own worries and problems. As soon as a fight broke out up would go the cry “Ruggy up, Ruggy up. the call sign to say a fight had broken out or was in progress. No peeking from behind curtains here! Every window in the street would be thrown open and propped up with some suitable object, a pillow or cushion placed on the hard outside window ledge and only then would the tenant kneel on the floor, elbows placed on the cushion for comfort lean out to get a better view! During a lull in the fight, the wife or husband might catch sight of the “spectators” and would angrily shout “What are you lot looking at? Have ya had a good look now?” peppered with many expletives causing every cushion/pillow to be hastily withdrawn and the windows closed in record time. . The strange thing was nobody interfered or tried to pacify or ease the situation, not even family members! If on the rare occasion someone would try to break the row up they would be the ones to come out of it the worse for wear! There appeared to be an unwritten law, you don’t interfere even if at that point the woman or man involved in the fight was covered in blood and in need of medical attention. In the end the granny of the family was always called upon to ease the situation and because, as stated they were respected she was the one who could (using the sharp end of her tongue) bring the altercation to a close. I think the secret was no one could turn around and berate a granny as this would not be tolerated by any of the streets inhabitants, they were to be shown respect at all times no matter what the situation. I would be about sixteen years of age before I really began to notice and question the injustices that were happening all around me. Already two years into working and having learned the “Facts of life” from older girls/women in the factories where I worked, albeit second hand, this simple mind could not equate or come to terms with the inequality and injustices which I was beginning to notice. I was not educated or old enough to see the picture as a whole, had I been, I think I would have been first on the queue to join the suffragettes!
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While my own dad never lifted a finger to my mum, I never knew him to really help out in the home. On the odd occasion when he would offer to clean the windows my mother would say it was more trouble than it was worth as he would be crying out for this cloth or that cloth, as Ma would say, “Sure he would want a whole sheet just to clean a few windows!! I saw women waiting for men to return home with their dole money, waiting for the few shillings to feed their children. They waited and waited, watching the clock and then, in desperation called at the pub in the hope of getting a few shillings before it was all spent on drink. What most of them got was a good beating for daring to call a man out in front of his mates to ask for money!!! While I can appreciate jobs for casual labourers were in short supply and dole money was the only income, what entitled a man to think he could spend most of this inadequate payment (about thirty shillings) in a pub while his wife and children were wanting? Why, I asked myself were the mammies left to do all the worrying about meeting the cost of feeding, clothing and taking care of the children. Were there not two parents in these marriages? The Catholic organizations of St. Vincent De Paul were called upon when times got really desperate. While many families were grateful for the small amount they received they were told to pawn anything of value before they could receive any type of help. Were they not aware there was nothing left to pawn? In sheer desperation women had to turn to money lenders thus landing them even deeper into debt? Why did women in the obvious latter stages of pregnancy have to carry home large bags of (free) turf with several children hanging on to their skirts? Oh, so many whys and always the same answer, “Well, sure isn’t that the way it’s always been?” Even to this young mind, such feeble justification did not ring true. I often wonder if and when some future writer comes to explore and dissect life in the Dublin tenements will they try and justify the vile living conditions, lack of work and poverty as an excuse for the love of drink enjoyed by men who could ill afford it? Will they say it was their way of getting away even for a short time from the appalling conditions of overcrowding, poverty and growing old and weary before their time? But what of the women of the tenements? Did they not share the same conditions and reluctantly bear children year after year, resulting in a break down of health, bowed and broken beyond their time? And what of their social life? Where did they go to get even a couple of hours away to themselves? No pub for them, if they were lucky enough to have a granny to keep an eye on the children for an hour or so their outing was usually to the woman’s sodality at the local church or sitting by the hall door knitting or gossiping to the neighbours on Summer evenings. I think back and wonder about the women of my street. Did they, as young girl’s dream of that knight in shining armour who would come and sweep them away from the squalor and poverty so familiar to them? What young girl in love for the first time did not dream such dreams but, alas, in the majority of their cases have them dashed brick by brick in the stark reality of life in the tenements? Would they carry on for years still dreaming and hoping for better times, a change in fortunes that never materialized?
My mother, a very modest woman never discussed the facts of life with us girls so we were, as I am sure many others of our generation were, ignorant in so many such matters. Many years later when I asked my mother of her reluctance to do so she coloured as she replied “Oh, I could never talk of things like that to you girls, I would have been too embarrassed” This from a lady who had borne eleven children!! So, there I was, not understanding half of what was going on all around me yet, knowing what I was seeing was wrong. Of course money was in short supply and times were so hard but even I, a young girl reasoned compassion did not cost anything.
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In later life so many things would fall into place. At last I would understand why Mrs O D always came crying to my mother because our local priest would not give her absolution in the confessional because she did not want any more children adding to the ten she already had. Refusing her husband “his rights” brought the wrath of the priest down on a head already bowed in despair. In effect the priest was sending her home to even more drunken beatings and for what, apart from the procreation of even more babies to add to the ones they could not feed. Or, maybe on her husbands part to bolster his drunken ego and reassure him of his performance and shore up his masculinity? What then, I wondered had it been like for my Grandmother and, indeed G.Grandmother who had lived in this very same street before us? Dear God, had it been worse than this? It saddens me just to think about it! Had the men of those generations perpetuated the myth that women’s prime reason for living was to service the wishes and desires of men? Even now, I look back on these times as a time of enslavement, women worn out and aged beyond their years, with no such things as washing machines nor any of today’s modern appliances but, even more important in so many cases without the help of loving husbands to make life in the tenements a little more bearable. Amazingly, these men would see their lives as the norm, I guess for them to show compassion or any kind of gentleness was looked upon as a type of weakness!!
I think one of the nicest things I have ever seen,(many years ago) was the sight of a young man pushing a baby in a pram while a toddler held on to the handle, a sight you would never see in the Dublin of my youth! How wonderful to know that State and Church has moved on but better still to see and know that young Irish women of today have not only asserted themselves but have contributed enormously not only to the country but to their fellow sisters in the matter of fair play and equality I can just imagine their Grannies and great Grandmothers smiling down from their celestial armchairs, nodding their wise old heads and rubbing their hands with glee as they mutter, “Well Done, sure fair play and good on ya" Bridget x
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Hi Bridget,
I was looking through your stories about Dublin in days gone when I read about you going to Nellie Hoban's shop on Parnell Street. I spotted it because I was looking for any reference to the shop in a general search on the web. Nellie and Tommy Hoban were my grandparents, sadly both long since passed on. They died within 6 months of each other in 1977. He was still working for the Irish Press up until he died, if I remember rightly. They moved to Santry in the late fifties to be closer to my parents, Eileen (nee Hoban) and Harry Finegan. You may well remember them? They're both still very much alive, fit and well and in their late seventies now. I've often thought about getting them down there again and recording their memories of the area, long since changed since their days there. They often talk about Parnell Street and their childhood in the area now. It would be nice to have a permanent record of it all as talk about all like it was yesterday.
Anyway, hope you're keeping well.
Regards, Gary Finegan.
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Hi Gary,
How lovely to read your reply! A blast from the past! I have E-mailed you. Bridget x
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Hi Bridget,
I've sent you a reply. An error message came up when I went to send it so let me know if you didn't get it and I'll re-send.
Cheers,
G
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G, No problem :)